Chichi in charge
by Kettricken
Summary: After the Cell Games, Chichi tries to cheer up Gohan with a wild scheme to defeat Vegeta in combat. What she gets instead is more than anyone could have bargained for, and it's going to take *everyone* to win the day. Angst, humor, action, and adventure!
1. A Simple Plan

Chapter 1  
  
After the sixth straight day of moping, Chichi decided she'd had enough.  
  
"Get up," she said. Her son, whose forehead now bore the indentations of the placement he'd been resting it on, looked up, anxious.  
  
"No, no, it's all right," she continued, "you don't have to finish your differential analysis RIGHT this second. I've got something else planned tonight."  
  
Gohan's face, which had opened at the abrupt lightening of his workload, fell once again into furrows. Chichi frowned in response. Was this all he'd come to expect from her-- menial chores, menial life, never anything good to bring to him? She opened her mouth as if to speak, then changed in midstream, closed it again, and simply beckoned.  
  
The chair squeaked violently against the floor as Gohan rose. Young teenage boys, all gangle, could be so clumsy-- even boys as graceful as Gohan. Trained to master every martial art as he was, still the strange new proportionality between himself and the chair defeated him. A rare feat, that. Gohan had hit his growth in a matter of mere months after dropping out of that yellow-haired form-- a fact which did not escape his mother. Kami only knew what sort of effect that training could have on a boy's growth-- just gymnastics was enough to stunt girls who did it seriously. Best, in retrospect, that Gohan had let the insane training slide a little, and let his body catch up with what he asked of it. Growth was, after all, for times of peace.  
  
"Only a fool couldn't notice that you haven't been training," Chichi said, once they reached the yard. She raised an eyebrow, expectantly.  
  
"Haven't felt like it, I guess?" Gohan grinned, disarmingly. She knew that grin.  
  
"Not good enough, Gohan," she said. "Not if missing it is what's making you mope around the house like this all day. You haven't seen Piccolo in weeks!"  
  
"That's not it," he said, reflexively. "I mean... the training. To be honest... I never liked it the way Dad did. It was a way to spend time with everyone, to be a part of things... I wasn't doing it for fun, you know!"  
  
"I know, I know," Chichi said. "Don't think I'm blind to what goes on in your brain! That can't be it, then..." She pondered.  
  
"You're right though," said Gohan, sighing. "I should go find Piccolo-san-- get back into training again-- I've let so much slide this year! Thanks, mom, I--"  
  
"Wait!" Chichi frowned in consternation. This was Gohan now? This, her happy child, eating with relish, running off to play with animals, even befriending the demon Piccolo, become a man so accustomed to being enslaved to his duties that he was actually thankful for them? Become a man so long before his time? "I forbid it," she heard herself saying, and was astonished to see the tension drop from his frame-- a tension she hadn't even realized he was carrying. "There are other things besides kung fu. Other ways to defeat enemies."  
  
"Ma," he said, warningly.  
  
"Oh, you think I don't know what I'm talking about? Young man, let me just show you--" She stood up, wiping her hands on her apron, and entered her opening stance. Gohan's jaw dropped. Ha-- so he hadn't made the connection, either; thought only men could fight, did he? Her legs a little wobbly, she entered the deep lunge of the movements, following through their ritual dance, hands stiff and quick. As she finished, Gohan laughed, clapping. "You see?" She said, sitting down, "See there? But that isn't what I use to win my battles, is it now?"  
  
"No."  
  
"What do I use?"  
  
"I don't know..." he scratched his head. "Frying pan?"  
  
"Fool," she scoffed, arching her eyebrows. "Don't be fooled by diversionary tactics. I win using my brain. And I haven't lost a battle with them yet."  
  
"But Ma," said Gohan, serious now. "Against me and, well, dad, before-- it's different! You can't come in with that against what we've faced?"  
  
"Oh?" Chichi thought quickly, improvising. "Tell me. Who's the most fearsome adversary you've faced that's still around?"  
  
"I don't know." Gohan pulled at the grass. "Vegeta, I guess."  
  
"Right." Chichi stood, and struck her best superhero pose. "Tonight, using only the power of our minds, we defeat-- Vegeta!"  
  
"I know you want to prove your point, but isn't this going a little too far?" Gohan muttered.  
  
"What?"  
  
  
  
"Ha, ha-- nothing, nothing!" Gohan smiled, scratching his neck.  
  
Chichi exhaled. It was settled, then. As she followed her son back into the house, a cool breeze chilled the hairs at the nape of her neck. What was she getting herself into? 


	2. Scheming Scoundrels

*Dear Lawyers: The characters in the following story (and all preceding and subsequent chapters) are used without permission. This story may not be used for profit, and will be removed immediately upon complaint from the owners of the characters and settings used therein.* (Whew-- hope that's enough to keep me from getting sued.)  
  
Chapter 2: Scheming Scoundrels  
  
When the two new partners in crime closed the kitchen door behind them, they were regaled with the angry cries of Goten, left alone to awaken from his afternoon nap. Slapping herself on the forehead, Chichi ran to retrieve him from the crib. He would be ferociously hungry.  
  
"Gohan!" she called. "Do we have any bananas?" As she patted the baby's back, she heard Gohan rummaging through the kitchen for a banana and a fork to mash it with. Goten was just beginning on solid foods. She lifted a hand to her breast in relief. Son genes could be...painful, sometimes. In so, so many ways.  
  
He was ready with the pale mash when she set Goten in the highchair, and began to feed his little brother, brightening slightly as he did so. At times like this, she almost began to feel there was hope for their little family.  
  
"Ah!" proclaimed Goten, and pushed banana into the spiny fuzz that passed for his hair. Chichi ignored him.  
  
"Now, Gohan," she said, "Time to use that beautiful brain we've been developing. Tell me, what is a plan?"  
  
"Ahhh..." Gohan trailed off, absentmindedly peeling a banana for himself--  
  
Monkeys.  
  
--"Well," he said, "I guess... something convoluted, with a bunch of parts that work together to accomplish... something else?"  
  
"Wrong!" Chichi proclaimed. She furrowed her brows, and stroked her chin with her hand. How to explain it...  
  
"Ma," cut in Gohan, nervously, "You look... sort of evil..."  
  
"Quiet," she said.  
  
"Ma!" Goten concurred.   
  
"A plan," Chichi said, as if she'd never been interrupted, "Is best kept as simple as possible. What makes it a plan is having a strategy capable of adapting itself to any contingency that may arise; in essense, acting as if the worst will always happen. And getting away with it. This is the secret of true planning."  
  
"Wow..." Gohan had dropped the spoon. In the chair, forgotten, Goten began to complain.  
  
Chichi stood up, beginning to pace. This was getting good, even for her devious mind. "First, what do we know about our target? What are his assets?"  
  
"Insane amounts of raw power, and willingness to use it in a haphazard fashion." Gohan was getting into this, she could tell! The excitement in his voice rose. "He can sense enemies coming, at least powerful, organic enemies. He's suspicious and intelligent. He lives in a corporation that's practically a fortress, and is surrounded by geniuses..." Gohan paused. "Wow, he really does have a good setup there... I wonder why he hasn't taken over the world yet..."  
  
"Weaknesses?" Chichi asked, smirking a little.  
  
Gohan frowned. "Ehh... he's a little overconfident."  
  
Chichi concealed her mouth behind her hand, discreetly.  
  
"And... not many people like him?" Gohan looked up, anxious. "We could probably get a lot of people to help us out, but they might not be discreet about it... are we really going to do this?"  
  
"Dear," Chichi said, "What ELSE do we know about Vegeta?"  
  
"Well, that he's still obsessed with beating Dad, I guess." Gohan shrugged, then suddenly his eyes opened wide. "Ahhh... we can use that! I have an idea!" He slumped down briefly, deep in thought, then grabbed the pencil abandoned by the differential analysis textbook, and began scrawling madly in the margins.  
  
Chichi's eyes welled with pride. Her boy was learning. Then suddenly, her breath caught in her throat. He was also flushed, eyes sparkling-- more animated than she'd seen him in weeks. Her own, personal plan, her master plan-- it was working!  
  
It was at this moment that Goten wailed, in true distress-- "An an an an!" he sobbed, pointing at the unobtainable manna on the table; then, "Mmph!" as Gohan stuffed his mouth with the spoon.  
  
"If this plan ever takes off, someone's going to have to feed him," he said.  
  
"What d'you mean? I'll just call Bul...ahh." Chichi sat down. "I see your point," she conceded. For some reason, here was one contingency she hadn't even begun to think about-- she'd been focused so much on worry for one son, the other had nearly gotten lost on the way! "My father, I suppose," she said, frowning. It would be far from ideal. Sometimes it was nearly impossible to find Ox-King... like he disappeared from the face of the Earth... and he wasn't the world's most responsible person.   
  
"I have a better idea," said Gohan.  
  
Confused, Chichi turned-- then realization sank in like a ton of bricks. "Oh, Gohan. Gohan, no, no..."   
  
Her son was smiling. "Mom, he'll be fine!" He closed his eyes; rarely had she seen him relax so utterly, as if he were held in the arms of a benevolent god. "I have the utmost trust in his judgement."  
  
Three hundred miles away, under a heavy turban, a thick brow twitched nearly imperceptibly, as if responding to some private, internal stimulus. The brow's owner half opened his eyes, as if hearing words in a dream--  
  
"...no, no," he muttered, "Gohan--"  
  
Suddenly the eyes flew open, enraged. "No!" snarled Piccolo, breaking out of the subconscious meditative link with his former student. "Gohan!!" He cried, throwing his arms wide: "Why do I always get stuck with the babysitting??" 


	3. Visitations

Chapter 3: Visitations  
  
Soon afterwards, the entire Son family dropped from Kinto-un to the ground in front of a scowling green demon who stood, motionless, as if part of the vegetation, arms crossed.  
  
"Ah-- thanks, Mr. Piccolo-- we really appreciate it. It's just for one night," Gohan smiled.  
  
"Just give me the kid," said Piccolo, Jr.  
  
Not for the first time, Chichi shuddered at the sight of the sharp teeth in the alien's face. Saiyajin were one thing; she had never met one that didn't seem to act like one of your average kids in the sandbox, be he the bully, the serious kid, or the class clown. You could trust a Saiyajin; no deception there. Much simpler even than humans. Nameks, now-- and this one in particular-- emerging from the landscape, quiet and inscrutable-- one almost wanted to believe one was in the presence of an elemental spirit, a guru who might hold answers one had never even dreamed the questions to. (Admittedly, the turban helped there.) But then, when the mouth opened, those sharp, sharp teeth were more chilling than snake's fangs twice their length. A snake, at least, was always and only just that-- a snake, and honest in its purposes; as for Piccolo, his side was anyone's guess, his past a trail of ruins, and even his identity itself shifting with each year. And Chichi knew somewhere deep down, instinctively, that this made him more dangerous than any hostile enemy. That was Piccolo: the sharp teeth in the impassive face.  
  
"Right here," said Gohan, and handed the baby to the monster. He was a little out of breath, having flown himself half of the way, and as Piccolo took Goten in his arms, Gohan propped himself with a hand against Piccolo's side, casually.  
  
Piccolo fluidly edged away from the contact, as if pulling away was something automatic, and removing Gohan's support in the process. The boy's arms pinwheeled, trying to catch the abrupt fall, and a clawed green hand caught his, and pulled him firmly back upright. Gohan thanked his teacher, and Piccolo turned wordlessly back towards his cave.  
  
Chichi realized that her heart was beating as fast as a mouse's, and she felt as small. Piccolo's cape was retreating into the woods; she focused on that, breathing steadily, then attempted a smile. "Well, that's done," she said. "On we go?"   
  
Before they had left to perform the errands that would set the groundwork for their grand scheme to defeat Vegeta, Chichi had thrown out most of the elements of Gohan's plan, which had turned out to be not-so-simple.   
  
"No, no," she'd said; "Your plan involves telepathy, Tenshinhan, Korin, dragonballs, three devices that would take us weeks to build-- no. It doesn't need to be this complicated."  
  
"Well, I could just beat Vegeta up," Gohan suggested; the idea seemed to make him uncomfortable.  
  
"We want to defeat him, not make Vegeta sandwiches," Chichi joked. Her son turned pale, and she felt a beat of concern; what nerve had she struck? "Anyway, that isn't the point, and you know it! The point is no fighting. We just need to get him incapacitated," she said, hurriedly. "We don't need to trap him for life in a bottle like your plan would do. We just show we CAN beat him. And if we involve this many people, it will never stay secret. Not if I know Bulma Briefs."  
  
"Well, is any of it good?" Gohan said, frowning sadly at the crowded margins of his textbook.  
  
"One part of it I like very much indeed," Chichi smiled. "One of the most potent allies we have, and so underused... it makes me wonder who's doing the planning for this world, it really does."  
  
"There's a reason he's underused," Gohan had grumbled. But they had gone ahead with the plan; and Master Roshi's island now loomed ahead.  
  
"Gohan," Chichi said. "Can you carry me down behind the bushes? Kinto-un's a bit... conspicuous."  
  
"Sure," Gohan said, dropping from the side of the cloud. He reached his hand up for hers, and soon they were on their way down, quietly, to the cover of the bushes behind Kamesennin's house.  
  
"Look away, Gohan," hissed Chichi, reaching a hand up the back of her shirt.  
  
"Ma!" Gohan exclaimed, scandalized. "Don't you think that's dangerous, given our surroundings?"  
  
"Hush," said Chichi. "Risks must be taken." She pulled a brassiere from the sleeve of her shirt.  
  
"Whoa..." Gohan's eyes crossed. "How did you..."  
  
"Oh, Gohan... sometimes..." Chichi shook her head. "I'll show you later. It impresses guys, maybe knowing it will impress girls too? Oh, quiet, someone's coming--"  
  
Oolong, porcine companion to anyone who would have him, emerged blinking into the bright afternoon sun, magazine in hand. He had been looking for Roshi on a very pertinent question of the anatomical capabilities (and incapabilities) of the human hip joint; but had yet to locate the darn geezer's chaise, when...  
  
what was that?  
  
From the bushes, waving gently on the end of a stick, emerged a beautiful (and rather large) purple silk bra.  
  
Perplexed, Oolong stepped forward. Was that a... it couldn't be. Android 18 didn't wear that size; and besides, he never showed his face when someone so dangerous was about. That meant...  
  
Oolong chuckled. "Roshi, you devil," he muttered. The bra was on the move. Stalking it ever so cautiously, he tiptoed, closing on his prey. Just on the other side of that aloe...  
  
"Eeeee! Eeee! Eeemmph---"  
  
"Sshh," said Chichi, holding her hand over his mouth. "It's us."  
  
As the pig stopped struggling, Chichi slowly released her grip.  
  
"Chichi?" said Oolong, incredulously.  
  
"Oolong," said Chichi, "Do you want this?" She dangled the bra from a finger.   
  
Oolong nodded; then made a wild grab. Quick-witted, Chichi threw the bra to her son, who caught it instinctively, then proceeded to blush a shade that was a pretty close approximation of its color.  
  
"Not so fast," she hissed. "We need a favor."  
  
Oolong looked suspicious. "What?"  
  
"Tell me... do you like Vegeta?"  
  
"Vegeta?!" Oolong snorted, incredulous. "Do you like, mm, Attila the Hun!?"  
  
"Excellent," Chichi nodded. "Now listen. We need a favor of you. It isn't dangerous, you'll be out in ten minutes; when you're done, you can have it. And if you keep it a secret, I'll cook you a full kosher dinner tomorrow night..."  
  
Oolong pondered, doubtful. "It's your underwear?"   
  
Chichi shook her head. "Bulma's."  
  
Slowly, Oolong smiled. 


	4. The Gears Grind Into Motion

*Author's Note* to Anonymous reviewer nicole_purple: not that I don't appreciate seeing my number of reviews ticking up, and not that I'm not glad you're enjoying the story, but please don't spam my review page with multiple copies of the same review. Thanks! :-)   
  
Chapter 4: The Gears Grind Into Motion  
  
It was a simple plan. A plan devised in a matter of minutes, set up during the course of a few hours, a plan capable of being executed in one evening.  
  
Chichi was highly pleased with herself. And with her son-- it had, after all, been Gohan's idea of using Oolong that formed the crux of her strategy. Although she had already begun to be thoroughly annoyed with the pig.  
  
"For the last time," she said, "You get him to drink it and then you don't have to *worry* that he'll actually want to fight you! That'll be the end! We drag him back to the gravity room, he wakes up in the morning-- probably convinced it was all a strange dream-- and he'll never put two and two together. He probably doesn't even know who you are!"  
  
"He doesn't have to know who I am to kill me," Oolong sulked.  
  
"That's why we have a back-up plan," Chichi said through clenched teeth.  
  
"Yeah? What!"  
  
"Me," said Gohan, nervously. "Well, I am stronger than him!" He went on defensively, at Oolong's skeptical look.  
  
"Sure, kid," said the pig.  
  
"If you're that worried, you can always just turn into a rock," said Chichi, "For all I care... and then, I'll kick you."  
  
Oolong shuddered.  
  
"Look, there's enough muscle relaxant in the red bottle to take down a blue whale-- or six," she went on. "With that much, he won't even have the muscle tone to focus a ki attack-- let along yell for help."  
  
"How do you know it won't kill him, then?" Oolong said testily. "Not that I'd mind..."  
  
"Dad had some whiplash after mom tried to make him learn to drive," Gohan said calmly. "This stuff is leftovers."  
  
"Besides, if the worst happens, we can just get his stomach pumped," Chichi said. "It won't be pretty, but it should work."  
  
Oolong threw up his arms. "All right, all right," he said. "Gimme the bra."  
  
"You're going to wear it on the job?"  
  
"No, pipsqueak," Oolong glared... up at Gohan (when had the boy gotten taller than him?): "I just want to carry it in my pocket..." his eyes glazed over, dreamily. "Ah... sweet Bulma..."  
  
CLONG!  
  
As Oolong reeled in the wake of a cast-iron frying pan, Chichi shook her head and sighed. She didn't care how useful his shapeshifting technique was; never, never again.  
  
"Mom," Gohan said, "How can we be sure he'll drink it?"   
  
"Because we know Vegeta," Chichi said simply, hoping what she said was indeed true; "he'll drink it."  
  
Night fell over Mt. Paozu and Satan City; in a forest to the west, a turbaned creature pondered the turn his life was taking as a snoring baby tugged at his oversized green ears. On a tropical island to the South, an old man wondered what had happened to a particular magazine he was especially fond of (and, come to think of it, his houseguest along with it). And high above all of them, the god on the lookout watched over the darkening land.  
  
In the garden behind Capsule corps, three co-conspirators skulked in the bushes, watching the lights in the house wink out.  
  
"That'll be Trunks' bedroom," whispered Gohan.  
  
"Maybe we should have you ride in on Kinto-un," Chichi wondered to Oolong. Oolong squinted at her, then lifted the silky purple bra from his pocket, as if it explained everything.  
  
"Ah, right," Chichi muttered. "Pure of heart."  
  
"Ssh, ma," Gohan whispered. "The light in main bedroom is going out."  
  
A hush fell over the garden; no-one moved for several minutes.  
  
"Mrs. Son," Oolong said, "Do you think they're... eh?"  
  
"Shh," hissed Chichi, fiercely, turning away. How dare he... insinuate... in front of her son, a mere child? She watched the house for another moment in silence, then whispered without turning around, "Bulma's a morning person."  
  
"Ohhhh...."  
  
"Here he comes!" Gohan said, crouching down.  
  
"Right on time," said Chichi.  
  
The back door clicked behind the figure of Vegeta, wearing only the undersuit from a set of Saiyan armor, carrying a towel in his bulky left arm. Scowling under the security light over his door, he smacked at a mosquito that dared to assault his royal presence; then he moved, quickly and fiercely, towards the gravity room, and vanished into it.  
  
"Chichi... I don't think I like this anymore..." muttered Oolong.  
  
"Too late," she shrugged, and shoved him out into the open.  
  
Oolong muffled a scream, glancing at the darkened windows of Capsule Corps as if they concealed sniper rifles, then quickly popped into the shape of Son Goku.  
  
Chichi's heart missed a beat. Seeing someone transform their shape was startling enough, but much as she'd thought it wouldn't bother her, seeing the silhouette of her husband brought back feelings it would have been better to have left quiescent. She wanted to run to him; she could feel the touch of his firm hand against her cheek like a ghostly presence, warm and comforting, and she made herself stand still, trampling down her need to hold this man who stood before them. This was not Goku. He had not come back to her.  
  
Then the figure turned, and it wasn't Goku anymore. Not that there was anything wrong with the face; no, even the dark of his irises was perfect. But he wore Oolong's face, and she had never seen Son Goku look like a coward.  
  
Beside her, Gohan took a deep breath, as if he'd been released from a sudden terror. Belatedly, she turned to him, wondering what he had experienced, seeing this magical apparition in the twilight; but he only nodded curtly, smiling, although he seemed pale. Perhaps it was only the dim light.  
  
Gathering herself together, she strode forward.   
  
"Pull yourself up," she lectured. "You'll never pass for him. Smile. There."  
  
Oolong smiled, clearly trying his best to look completely vapid.  
  
"No, no," Gohan whispered, "Like this." And he demonstrated. Oolong copied him, pulling his eyes closer together in the progress, which almost made Chichi lose her dinner. When he was done, though, there was a carbon copy of the Son grin-- a little more Gohan than Goku, but---  
  
"You'll pass," said Chichi, approvingly. Before retreating back into the cover of the bushes, she handed him the two glass bottles, and nodded toward the gravity room. Already bumps and kiai noises were emanating from its domed walls; every so often, the edges flashed gold, as if a raging thunderstorm were trapped inside. Grinning like a doomed idiot, Oolong stepped forward to meet his fate. 


	5. Fruition

::AN -- well now it seems like nobody's reviewing! Oh well. I'll give you a freebie anyway, because I'm nice like that. Er... and because it's not like this is a story you have to pay for with reviews or something. No, nothing like that, certainly. ;-D ::  
  
Chapter 5: Fruition  
  
As Oolong knocked on the door, he felt a last twinge of panic die. This was it; absolutely no going back. The noises inside the gravity room ceased, and an irate Vegeta, sweat gleaming along his forehead, answered the door.  
  
The quickened rise and fall of the erstwhile prince's chest was a little terrifying; as if the man Oolong confronted was actually a taut rubberband, not a person at all. This seemed, in fact, quite in keeping with every rumor Oolong had yet heard about Vegeta.  
  
In the bushes, Chichi and Gohan watched the two stare at one another.   
  
"Why doesn't he say something?" Gohan whispered, barely audible.  
  
"Kakkarot," said Vegeta at this point, with a sneer. Then he raised one eyebrow. "You have no ki."  
  
Chichi nearly jumped. Gohan's energy! She hadn't remembered to tell him to lower it-- but a reassuring hand on her arm told her all she needed to know. He'd lowered it. In fact, as long as he didn't get angry, he probably wouldn't need to tweak at all; he could fly under the martial arts version of radar quite well.  
  
"Of course I don't," said the image of Son Goku, grinning. "I'm not here in my real physical body. Just a... uh... tactile apparition."  
  
Chichi crossed her fingers. That had been Gohan's word for it, not something her husband would actually use!  
  
  
  
Thankfully, Vegeta seemed to buy it.  
  
"You're still dead," he said, then paused. "Can you fight like that?"  
  
One-track mind.  
  
"Oh, I dunno, Vegeta," said Oolong, and rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. "I was just here checking up on everybody, but I got the timing wrong, and everyone else was asleep..."  
  
Chichi grinned. This guy was actually pretty good!  
  
Vegeta grunted. "Well, if you've come here just to waste time, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. Those of us who are still living have work to do."  
  
"Wait, Vegeta!" complained Oolong. "I guess I could try. Wait a sec... I got this stuff from the Kais a while back..." He rummaged in his voluminous orange pants, and took out a bottle of dark orange liquid.  
  
"What is that?" said Vegeta, suspiciously.  
  
"Kinda like a booster juice... you want some?"  
  
Chichi slapped a hand to her head. Oolong had just abandoned the entire plan! This was where he was supposed to go into how the liquid was a mysterious substance that raised the fighting ability of the whole person, so it would make his avatar more substantial in the earthly plane, thus able to fight if Vegeta drank from the other bottle to make himself more insubstantial so they could meet halfway between planes and fight there...  
  
"Fine," growled the Prince of Saiyans. Oolong handed him the bottle of red liquid, and he downed it in one fell gulp. "Now can we stop wasting time and sp.. pa... arrrrrrrschnpxzzzzz...."  
  
And with only the slightest and most graceful of thuds, the diminutive figure collapsed to the ground, dead asleep.  
  
Chichi and Gohan ran out from the bushes to where Oolong, popping back into the form of a pig, gingerly lifted an arm, then let go. It flopped down like wilted spaghetti.  
  
"I can't believe it," said the pig. "It actually worked!" He looked at the body of the Prince of Saiyans, which lay snoring in a little limp lump. "I can't believe it was so easy..."  
  
"You were brilliant!" gushed Chichi. "How'd you know he'd just drink it like that?"  
  
"I, ah..." Oolong trailed off sheepishly, then muttered quickly, turning red: "Kinda forgot what I was supposed to say..."  
  
"Hey, I wrote that part!" Gohan frowned.  
  
Oolong tried to lift a sculpted leg by its ankle, then gave up. "How's a guy this small this heavy, anyway?"  
  
"Solid muscle," Gohan grinned, ruefully.  
  
"And allll of it completely relaxed," Chichi grinned mischeivously. "Well, boys? We did it. We defeated His Highness Vegeta-- and without having to land a single blow." She nudged His Highness with her foot. "We'll get him back in the gravity room, and he'll wake up a little tired, and think it was all some sort of strange vision, most likely. Ha! Brains over brawn!" Unable to resist, she made a victory sign.  
  
"Well, I'm not carrying him," Oolong muttered.  
  
Offhandedly, Son Gohan lifted up the body. It snored.  
  
"OK," Oolong said, "You seem to have this under control. Congratulations, both of you... you owe me a dinner, remember... well, I'm..." and with a last cowardly look at the body draped over Gohan's shoulder, Oolong vanished away into the night.  
  
Chichi snorted. And here she had almost been ready to forgive and forget the way that creature behaved!  
  
"We should get out of here before he wakes up," Gohan said.  
  
"Him? He'll be out until morning."  
  
"I think he's waking up," Gohan insisted, nervously. "His arm twitched a second ago."  
  
"What? He shouldn't be able to even move the brain cell to think about twitching a muscle!" Chichi squinted at Vegeta's body in the dim light, and caught an unmistakeable twitch in his thigh muscle. Then another along his spine.  
  
"No," she breathed. "It can't do this. I don't understand! The... this isn't even a possible side effect of the drug! What's going on?"  
  
"What was in the drink before you drugged it?" Gohan said, an unmistakeable note of panic in his voice. "Could it be an interaction?"  
  
"It's just cherry soda!" Chichi protested. "Bulma said Vegeta never takes any other drugs, either; matter of pride, he thinks it weakens the body. Oh, Kami..." she trailed off, as Vegeta's body twitched again, violently, and again.  
  
"He's going into convulsions," Gohan said. "Ma!" He turned to her, hurt, and the look in his eyes made her grow pale. He was blaming her. Of course he would blame her. This whole misconceived scheme had been at her behest. But I only wanted to help you, Chichi wanted to say; I only wanted to show you you didn't have to shoulder the burden of the planet on yourself. That you could be free to pursue a normal life, that you weren't the only one who could defend people! But Chichi didn't say any of this; she found herself mute, unable to speak, hardly able to stand, as Vegeta's back arched in the grips of a spasm. As his hand stretched out, a light flew from it, striking a nearby tree; it burst into flame.  
  
"Ma!" Gohan said, and his voice was forceful, suddenly, and remarkably calm. "Get Bulma. Get help." Lights were turning on inside of Capsule Corps. "Whatever this is, his ki control is as shot as his muscle control. I'll try to keep him from doing any damage to anyone. Go!"  
  
Chichi turned and fled toward the house. It suddenly seemed strangely far, as if the world had telescoped around her. Everything seemed to be going slowly, and topsy-turvy; somewhere she could hear Trunks wailing, and the sound of footsteps. Somehow it had all gone horribly wrong, and she had no idea how. It wasn't supposed to be this way; she was supposed to be in charge so her son wouldn't have to be. She was supposed to be the protector for a change. Instead the tables had been turned on her, she didn't know how, she didn't know by who, her son looked at her from eyes more disappointed and betrayed than accusatory; she had failed, failed him, Vegeta was dying, and her son had been replaced with that cold, calculating warrior she'd been trying to help him cast away, and suddenly it was just one more time he had to save the world-- just one more parent turned dependent on him, just one more step to growing old frighteningly before his time--  
  
Chichi didn't make it across the garden to the back door of the house. Someone struck a blow to her solar plexus, hard, her breath was stolen from her lips, and the world blinked away.  
  
...to be continued... 


	6. The Second Son

Chapter 6: The Second Son  
  
Piccolo's head snapped up. Beside him, the child slept on; the tiny features of his face were barely illuminated by the meagre starlight that penetrated the recesses of the cave. Still, Namek eyes made up for the deficiency; one Son child, at least, was at peace tonight.  
  
The other? There was no sense from the corner of Piccolo's mind where he kept Gohan's presense, a small shining place behind the two shadowy giants who shared souls with him. Nail and Kami, their conscious selves subsumed under his, murmured discontentedly and incomprehensibly at the noises from his bond with Gohan.  
  
Piccolo left them and quested out from within himself, his senses blooming out to cover hundreds of miles; ocean to ocean, he felt the landscape of energy. Yes. There it was. A strong ki, and vibrating in concert with the uncomfortable snatches of thought he was receiving; Gohan, the familiar soul, his ki rising. And beside it, erratic, now barely perceptible, now overflowing with an energy that was enough to burst a small moon-- Vegeta.  
  
Since Gohan had been just a little boy, Piccolo had found himself in a completely helpless position with regard to him. That corner of his mind which he shared with the boy was the brightest portion of his soul; to lose it would be unthinkable. Much as he knew that a student must be allowed to fight his own battles, in the end, he had no choice but to intervene; better to die himself than let that light be extinguished. Gohan could probably handle Vegeta, no matter the trouble; and as for Vegeta's own problem, Piccolo was willing to assume the man had brought it on himself. Nonetheless, he extended his feet down to the floor from where he'd been hovering. He laid the voluminous white cape over Goten, preparing to leave him, and suddenly frowned. Would it be safe to leave the child? Was he choosing one son over the other?   
  
Confidence filled him, coming from Nail; Dende had had a connection with him, Dende was God of the Earth; Dende would watch over the child. The part of him that was Nail was certain. It was settled, then; Goten yawned in his sleep, and put his thumb into his mouth. Piccolo left the cave and took flight.  
  
Eyes closed, concentrating on Gohan's ki, he took a direction. Capsule Corps. He'd had an inkling they had planned a some sort of prank on Vegeta; it was just possible that this was part of it, and he was overreacting. But something told him he wasn't; something told him that there was more afoot that night than anyone truly realized. The air was chill, and smelled of ozone. A nervous flock of birds on a course perpendicular to his fluttered around him, and he pushed his speed until the wind smarted against his eyes; it had been almost the behavior of birds before a hurricane or a windstorm, trying to grab hold of anything solid they could find in order to withstand the deluge--  
  
Birds? In the night?  
  
Piccolo stopped in the air and quickly pulled all his senses away from the conflict ahead of him and into the here and now. The birds passed around him, and he wheeled; and smelled now what he should have as soon as he awakened. Smoke. To his left, and behind, where he had come from; and then he saw, racing across the night forest, the low orange flickerings of forest fire.   
  
Gohan's distress was becoming increasingly evident in his mind. The fire raced across the woods; this was no natural fire, Piccolo realized. No, and the coincidence with the incident at Capsule Corps was too much to accept. Someone was behind this. Someone with a knowledge of the Saiyans, and the instinct to seize an opportunity as it struck. And Piccolo found himself, after months of waiting in the woods with nothing BUT time, suddenly and utterly at a lack for it.  
  
Snarling, he turned for the cave. No time, even, to make a decision; simply trust that the older son would come through; simply turn to the problem at hand. After all, he had made a promise. The fire blocked his way; eventually, there would be nowhere to go but through it, and hope the kid wasn't too badly hurt for Dende to tend. Assuming he could make it to the Lookout in time. Piccolo cursed having left his cloak in the cave; he had nothing to shield himself with, and no time to improvise. Hopefully Goten would instinctively find some use for it.  
  
The smoke stung his eyes. Piccolo flew faster; down, closer to the trees. There was no going around it. It felt as if there were no air at all, so he stopped breathing. Just have to make it on what he already had in his lungs. For once and for all, the great champion Ma Junior roundly cursed Saiyans, babysitting, and all the annoyances of children that he could think of. It was getting very, very hot.  
  
  
  
Gohan was fighting a losing battle. Surprisingly, with the new inches he'd put on, he was now approximately the same height as the prince; but Vegeta was wider, heavier, his physique mature. Not to mention the fact that Vegeta was thrashing wildly, at random; there was no predicting when an elbow would come crashing against his ribs, or his head slam against his shoulder. And Vegeta was far too far gone to pull any punches. His mother had gone to fetch Bulma; and although he was trying to keep calm, he felt terrified, utterly terrified. Vegeta was unconscious; he had never before found himself in a position where there was not even a theoretical way to end a threat to himself and others. It wasn't as if hitting Vegeta would do any good. Unless he were to kill him. No-- Gohan shook that thought away, horrified, as he took a shoulder to his ribs. That was not an acceptible thought. His mother was there. He would protect everyone. He would protect Vegeta. Like a marionette, Vegeta jerked again, and ki flew from his fingertips at the ground. The tree was still on fire. Gohan shut his eyes and prayed for it to stop, for him to stop, please, please, for Vegeta to just go to sleep, to stop. An elbow took him in the bottom of the ribcage, and he felt it crack.  
  
"AAIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!"  
  
Bulma's cry took him by surprise, and Vegeta's body jerked to the ground, flopping ignominiously in the dust. Bulma ran to his side, and Gohan barely mustered the awareness to throw out an arm to stop her, breathing hard as he clutched his injured chest.  
  
"Stay back," he warned. "He's unconscious-- he could hurt you!"  
  
"Gohan!" Bulma looked at him in shock. She was wearing a loose blue nightshirt, faded, and her hair was all askew; tension wracked her, and she seemed barely able to stand straight; she hunched towards Vegeta, unable to turn away. Gohan dropped his arm, and she straightened herself a little, then suddenly turned on him again, fierce. "What did you do to him?" she screamed, voice breaking.   
  
Gohan didn't know what to say. His rib hurt too badly to stand; Vegeta must have broken two or three, and he could tell from the wooly feeling in his head that he'd been hit on the skull at some point too. The whole thing seemed so stupid, all of a sudden, and unreal; there wasn't even an enemy!   
  
"Cherry soda," he said numbly, "And muscle relaxants. We don't know what happened."   
  
"Who's 'we'?"   
  
"... Ma..." he said. Where was his mother? Why wasn't she with Bulma?   
  
"Well, he seems to be calming down a little," Bulma said. He allowed her to shove him aside, and kneel beside Vegeta. His ribcage was a sharp torment, as if knives stabbed him. He was barely able to breathe; and he felt hot all over. A fever? Or was it even his own sensations he was feeling?   
  
"Pulse is... it's far too low... what kind of relaxers?" Bulma muttered, turning scientist.  
  
"Bulma," said Gohan. Something was very wrong. Vegeta lay still on the ground, barely breathing, and behind them a tree was quietly burning itself down to ashes. His ki was rising. "Bulma!" Gohan said. Bulma looked around, Vegeta's limp wrist in her hand; panicking, he finally managed to unfreeze himself, to pull back into control of the scenario. This, at least, was something he could deal with; the monster's energy is rising. A friend is in danger. A little roughly, because he was in too much pain to care-- and not even entirely sure it was his own, this strange fire he felt racing down his veins-- he batted Bulma aside. She flew against the ground, and he was between them when Vegeta's back arched, his spiny hair flickering gold with energy; Gohan threw his hands into a block, knowing it wouldn't be enough, no time now to transform himself, and then the energy was on him and around him, coming through the barrier, he couldn't hold it, and then in truth he was on fire.  
  
He blacked out, momentarily, from the sheer impact. It was nothing so focused as a Kamehameha or even a Gallic Gun, Vegeta had no control for that sort of direct attack; but it was every ounce of ki remaining in Vegeta's body, expelled into both of their bodies by some subconscious will to fight; a last-ditch maneuvre. When the fire was gone, Vegeta was spent; his chest barely rose, and the palms of his hands were singed. Gohan lay panting; he had been injured worse, much worse the year before; a concussion, broken ribs, perhaps a sprain in the left knee and a general beating would not be too much for his body to heal on its own, provided Bulma didn't kill him.  
  
On the other side of him, he heard more than saw Bulma pull herself up to a seated position. She looked afraid, more afraid than he had ever seen her; she stared over him at Vegeta's body, dirty and pathetic, lying like a corpse. Blood dripped from his nose and tongue. She hesitated to go to him, glancing at Gohan.  
  
"Go," he managed. "It's safe now."   
  
Bulma ran to Vegeta's side, taking his hand in hers. Her face was very white, but motionless, as if she were afraid even of what she might betray if she moved any part of it. Gohan shifted uncomfortably on the ground; inside the house, he now noticed, Trunks cried on. Where was his mother?  
  
  
  
High above the world, a blackened arm extended slowly above the lip of a white tiled floor. Shaking, the creature established its grip.  
  
Some time passed.  
  
Another arm, then, swathed in an incredibly dirty cape, rose, and deposited its burden; a small, unhappy, dark-haired child, smeared with soot and breathing unevenly. Son Goten, alive, and safe.   
  
The arm dropped, and Piccolo hung from the edge of Kami's Lookout. His Lookout. He seemed to be having trouble remembering who he was; there was only fire, and more fire, and a child, and this place. But he remembered enough to know he was done now. He felt a deep sense of relief.   
  
Is it time to pass out? He asked himself, and a voice inside him said, yes.  
  
The fingers relaxed; Piccolo dropped from the sky like a stone. It was a long way down. 


	7. Whatever Happened to Son Chichi?

Chapter 7: Whatever happened to Son Chichi?  
  
Bulma's father had helped her carry the limp form of her lover into the house, as her mother comforted the wailing Trunks. Hovering on the edge of consciousness, Gohan felt weak, and more than a little abandoned; he knew that a part of himself was angry that here, he had held Vegeta, keeping him from harming himself in his wild seizure; had protected Bulma, as well, until the danger was past, and at the cost of his own body. But he shot down that thought with the knowledge that it had been that ill-formulated plan that had set things in motion in the first place. And after he had nodded to Bulma that he would be all right, the whole family had rallied around their own, leaving him there, outside in the quiet night. He had no right to be angry; they were right to leave him.  
  
And it gave him plenty of time to think.  
  
He had realized, now, that the strange burning sensation that had plagued him as he fought Vegeta was not genuine; it was not reflected in any of the injuries he found on his own body, not even the final expulsion of Vegeta's energy which had singed even the prince's own fingertips. His shield had blocked the worst of that. The fire had come from either something he'd touched or ingested, some sort of poison which produced a neurological illusion; or, alternatively, it was overflow from Piccolo. And he was betting on Piccolo. Which meant that the first thing he had to do was make sure his little brother was all right. That was the first thing.   
  
An owl called. Gohan realized he had been lying on the ground, unmoving, for some time since he'd resolved to go after Goten. It perturbed him more than a little that he wasn't sure exactly how long. This was no good-- in either of the scenarios he'd planned, a multi-stage attack had been undertaken upon unknown numbers of his friends, and there was no guarantee that it had ended. He would have to get into the house. Resigning himself to the petty pain of non-fatal injury-- although his lack of time sense was a trifle worrying, and he wasn't certain he'd make it without falling-- he pulled on his inner reserves, to drag himself into the relative safety of Capsule Corp, after the others. His ribs were daggers against his side. Ignoring them, Gohan rolled onto his belly, and pushed himself to his knees. Speed had suddenly become important.  
  
High above him in the cool night sky, a strong energy approached.  
  
There was bouncing and incoherent sounds, first; then a light, briefly, and a nasty smelling rag over her face. She swung her fist at it with all her might, blindly, and nearly dislocated her shoulder doing so; her hands were tied, tightly, behind her back. She bit at the rag, but the taste was horrible, making her gag, and as she tried to spit and found she didn't have the energy, she realized she was losing consc--  
  
--iousness. The bouncing was gone, but it was still dark. Night? Carried? Vegeta? Her thoughts made no sense.  
  
Chichi opened her eyes; they were sticky with induced sleep. It was not, in fact, actually pitch-black anymore; merely dim. Shaking her head in a vain effort to get the wool off it-- she had a conviction that her skull had somehow been padded with it-- she took stock of her surroundings.  
  
She was in a cage, steel-barred, thick, with a heavy lock; her hands were still tied, but her legs were free (although in her current dizzy state unreliable). She was in a small room, windowless, filled with switchboard and radio equipment; a map that made no sense to her was pinging. Two men talked with one another in hushed voices; she couldn't hear what they were saying. Humans, though, or at least humanoids; she wished she were better at detecting ki. She would assume they were human. Gohan hadn't felt them in the garden. Gohan hadn't saved her in the garden. Gohan--  
  
"Status?"   
  
The voice, louder now, caught her attention. He spoke into a headset, still facing away from her; the tinny voice coming over the radio was nearly inaudible.  
  
"...Confirmed, alpha target is down." The man turned to his companion with a pleased nod. Chichi's heart sank. Which one was alpha target? Could it be her son?  
  
"Good work, Blue," the man said, then, "hold on--"  
  
His companion-- Goon Two, she'd call him, Chichi decided-- had turned to Goon One, handing him a printout. Glancing over it efficiently, Goon One spoke into the radio again.  
  
"Gamma team reports their target is MIA, presumed injured. Repeat, Gamma target is missing. Report to location Gamma f-"  
  
Chichi felt hope spring. Injured? Someone, at least, was alive. That was the meaning.   
  
Goon One had turned to his subordinate. "Get units three and four to Blue Location," he said, animated, "And notify the Omega teammembers to end search; their targets just showed up."   
  
The squeaking of the radio suddenly called Goon One's attention back.  
  
"A-- I-- No, the order stands! I don't care what you saw, Omega Targets are homo sapiens. I'm not going to throw this opportunity away because you're too cowardly to trust your fellow soldiers..."  
  
As Goon One ranted on, Chichi attempted to piece matters together. Location Blue-- probably where she had just come from, presuming Vegeta or Gohan to be Alpha Target. They were going to launch a military attack on Capsule Corps? Ordinarily, she'd laugh at the idea; even with Vegeta out of the picture, the Briefs were not easy targets. But with all the confusion, would they see it coming? She had to do something. Her legs were free; and that was her one asset. What were steel bars to an enraged mother? They would never see her coming--  
  
Chichi lept to her feet, hurling a ferocious back-kick at the hinge of her cage. The two men wheeled, astonished; what, had they expected her to stay passed out forever?   
  
Her kick probably would have connected, too, if it wasn't for the lack of balance from the suddenly standing up. Instead, her left leb teetered horribly, and with no arms to catch herself, Chichi collapsed face down in a drugged heap.  
  
"What have you done to my son?!" She tried to yell, but what actually came out was a loose-lipped mumble.   
  
Goon Two approached the cage, and reached between the bars. Chichi steeled herself to be hit, too weak to dodge; but instead, he slapped tape over her mouth. Her eyes widened. The nerve--- without even saying a word!  
  
Gohan, she thought. There's nothing I can do. And though it had been true for years, for every battle they had fought since she had met Son Goku, never before had it stung so close to her heart. Her plan was broken; the only plan left to her was to wait.  
  
Gohan, for his part, was never going to make it to the back door of Capsule Corps. The energy signature was nearly on him. He looked around-- cover, at least there must be partial cover. The hedge. He reached--  
  
And hands took him around the waist.  
  
"Gohan!" A concerned voice. Was it familiar? "What happened here? I came as soon as I felt Vegeta's energy go strange like that, but it took me some time. Gohan?" The voice raised in pitch, worried. "Are you conscious, buddy?" Strong hands turned him, and he found himself face to face with a round head, swimming in his vision.  
  
"Kuririn," he said, placing it at last. He tried to smile, and the monk looked crestfallen. "I'll be OK. Just trying to get inside." There was a bumbling noise coming from somewhere.  
  
Kuririn's hand went to the pain on his temple, and came away blooded. "Kid, I think you're hurt worse than you know," he said, and with no more ado, hefted Gohan as if he were weightless. "Let's get you inside. Are Bulma and Trunks okay?"  
  
"Don't want to see Bulma," Gohan mumbled. He was having trouble putting words together. "Angry at me."  
  
"She left you here like this?" Kuririn said, horrified. "I'm going to have to talk to her. Come on, I can feel Tenshinhan on his way, too-- we'll take care of it, kid. I promise, you don't even have to look at Bulma if you don't want to."  
  
Gohan relaxed. Not have to look at Bulma. That sounded good. Very good. There was something he had wanted to do, but he couldn't remember what it was. Where was his mother? Where was Son Chichi?  
  
"I'm going to put you down for a sec," said Kuririn. The pleasant edge to his voice sounded a bit strained. "Got a little company. This will only take a minute." Gohan found himself back on earth again; the ground was beginning to seem almost friendly. He cracked an eye open; Kuririn was standing over him, arms raised in a block. And above him, the whirling noise raised in a crescendo; helicopters. He was too tired to count how many. He opened his mouth, but only a croak came out.  
  
"Get to the house, if you can make it," Kuririn said over his shoulder. "Please, get to safety!" He turned. "Tenshinhan," he said to the helicopters. "You'd better get here soon." 


	8. The Battle for Capsule Corp

A/N: as requested, now with explicit breaks between POV shifts (I'm always writing these at 2 AM; life's a little incoherent at that point!)  
  
Chapter 8: The Battle for Capsule Corps  
  
Kuririn spared a quick backwards glance at Gohan. The boy had collapsed at last; he would not make it into the house. The very fact that Gohan could be so badly injured and yet so distracted as not to even notice indicated a fairly serious concussion; and there were very, very few who could hurt the son of Goku so badly. So Kuririn glared balefully at the hovering helicopters. Gohan's condition left him no choice but to stand his ground-- not a position he'd have chosen in general, but nothing he regretted. He had attacks he could send from standing. Although if this was, in fact, the enemy that had taken the boy down, then defending him would be ridiculous; sort of like a guppy protecting a shark, or something. Guppy versus Orca. Lately, all the battles had seemed like that to him.  
  
"No time to think," Kuririn muttered, shaking off that particular wry thought. So far, it was just helicopters. And if it was just helicopters...  
  
Kuririn focused his energy, feeling it burn along his limbs, into his fingers, until "Kienzan!" he called, and hurled the sawblade of ki into the sky.   
  
The helicopter, with a large cracking noise, split into two perfect halves. Small, human figures hurled themselves from it as it plummeted, and hit the ground a scant fifty feet from where he stood. Red light flared from the crash site, sending the other helicopters scattering like skittish beetles; suddenly the night sky was illuminated by a bonfire blaze which exploded from the wreckage. Startled, Kuririn recoiled. The attack had been almost too easy-- but this was not the result he'd expected! An explosion, sure, but this fire showed no sign of dying down. And it smelled wrong. Like burning tar, some sort of incendiary chemical.   
  
"Someone's been starting fires," Kuririn said under his breath, and wondered what poor suckers had had to ride in that thing with its deadly payload. Whoever they'd been, most likely they hadn't survived his own attack, much less the ensuing explosion; Kuririn's brows furrowed. The other helicopters were circling warily; six or seven of them, trying to steer clear of the heat from the fire. It was considerable, and spreading; whatever that chemical was, it showed no sign of being extinguished quickly. With luck, it wouldn't reach Capsule Corps; the dangerous nature of the Briefs' experimentations meant their house had a considerable firebreak around it. Nonetheless, there was no way he could risk one of those helicopters falling directly on the house.   
  
Kuririn took a catstep back, bracing himself. It was an impossible situation. He couldn't protect both Gohan and Capsule Corporation. He made his choice.  
  
The helicopters opened fire.  
  
He tried to push the barrage away from himself with voice and ki. They were ordinary bullets; they pushed around him, deflecting away from his aura, a small echo of the burning wreckage spreading around him. Kuririn smiled, delighted. Normal, human warriors! For once! A slow realization began to dawn on him-- he could win this one. Himself. For his best friend's son, for his own bedraggled pride, for his comrades. He puffed himself up.  
  
"Tenshinhan!" He called. "I take it back! You can wait!"  
  
Suddenly his head jerked to one side. With the instincts of a thousand spars, Kuririn ducked and struck without turning, only then looking to see what had hit him. A soldier, wearing black, who now rolled on the ground by Gohan, grabbing his own head and groaning.  
  
"Take that!" said Kuririn. "Who sent you?" He narrowed his eyes, looking around frantically. How many more of these guys were there? The fire helped somewhat, but it was still damnably hard to see in the middle of the night. Shadows lept around the garden like lurking figures, making him pass a hand over his eyes. He couldn't tell the real from the phantoms. There, that one looked--  
  
"Ha!"  
  
The ki blasted harmlessly into a wall, leaving a nice hemispheric dent. Kuririn cursed, then turned his attention to protecting himself as another wave of bullets tunneled their way into the lawn. The firebreak was holding, he noted; but-- there! One copter, splitting from the cover, heading to the left and over Capsule Corps, diving--  
  
Kuririn didn't wait to see what it would drop; his hands were already at his waist, chanting,  
  
"Kame-- Hame-- Ha!"  
  
The blue flames exploded across the lawn, outstripping the chemical blaze, pushing the rogue helicopter out, safely away, and all its pieces and all it carried far far from him. Kuririn panted, then grasped his arm as a sudden pain hit him. He hadn't thought it through. All very well to have an attack that gathered and concentrated energy, but it didn't leave much for defense. He sank to his knees, feeling his side wet, although there was no pain there yet. He was shot.  
  
Kuririn crawled to Gohan. Maybe these helicopters really had taken him down after all; although ruefully he thought to himself that if he were Saiyan, if he were Goku, then taking two bullets would only have made him angry... made him more formiddable... and therein lay the difference, he mused. Why he would always, no matter what he did, be only playing pretend, no matter what he tried.  
  
"At least I helped," he ventured, giving himself up. He would drape his body over Gohan's. He would at least save Goku's child.  
  
It dawned him, then, that he was not yet dead, or even unconscious. He could muster one more attack. The helicopters were too close to take out directly, but perhaps a game of chase-- Kuririn mustered the last of his energy, forming it into a ball. "After them," he whispered, and sent it off. He could only muster one missile of an attack that usually sent out a dozen such missiles, but he put his all into it. As it left him, he seemed to pass out of his body with it; as if it were he chasing the helicopter that fled before him, terrified, him that finally crashed into it in a most satisfying burst of flame; him that saw, with his last moment of existence, through the flames of his own undoing, a three eyed being wavering in the heat like a demon of rage.  
  
Had Kuririn, or Gohan for that matter, been awake to see it, they would have seen how Tenshinhan threw helicopters away from them like a man throws driftwood; seen the terror in the eyes of the men who fled the grounds of Capsule Corps without the bodies they'd come for, clutching their stomachs, petrified of the living porcelain figure floating there like a ghost; seen how friends mistook one another for enemies, how helicopter guns mysteriously targeted one another, until in the end the straggling survivors cowered as they fled, convinced that devils had descended on them, wondering what they'd done to deserve being sent to Hell.  
  
***  
  
Inside the building, another battle was being waged.  
  
"Do we have a stethoscope, a blood pressure monitor, a... a tongue depressor, for Kami's sake?" Bulma snapped, putting her ear to Vegeta's back. She thought she could hear a beat, but it was faint, frighteningly so, and she couldn't find his pulse in his neck. Then again, he was an alien, so who could tell?  
  
"Will he be all right?" asked her mother, frantically stirring a bowl of cookie batter. At least they would all be well fed, whatever happened. On her shoulder, Trunks stirred, exhausted from crying.  
  
"Mom, would you get Trunks out of here, please?" Bulma said. "I'm a mechanic, not a doctor, for the love of... thanks..." as her father handed her a blood pressure cuff.  
  
She was silent as she took his pressure; the only sound was Trunks whimpering. Although she hoped he wouldn't, Bulma knew he was old enough to have a pretty good understanding of what was going on.  
  
"Senzu beans! Senzu beans," she yelled, running to the kitchen. Everything was moving in halftime. There were no senzu beans.   
  
"Mom," Bulma called from the kitchen. "Did you eat a sort of big nasty bean, by any chance?"  
  
"The one from the cabinet above the stove?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Fed it to Trunks. The poor thing was so hungry... you don't feed him enough!"  
  
"Mom!" Bulma said, agitated. "That was-- no wonder he's been off his feed."   
  
There was nothing left to do. She walked back to the living room and found her mother still standing with the cookie bowl. There was no talking to that woman. She went instead to Vegeta. He was pale. She ran her fingers through his coarse hair.  
  
"Don't you dare die on me," she hissed at him. "If you die on me, I will not fix the gravity room for a week. Two weeks."  
  
It occurred to Bulma then that if he died on her, it was not likely that the gravity room would ever be fixed again. She sat down. There seemed to be some sort of explosions going on outside. It didn't matter. Her father was calling for an ambulance; good. That barely mattered either.   
  
Bulma Briefs sat beside her lover and thought. Bulma Briefs sat beside her lover and tried to follow him. Eventually, though, she simply waited. 


	9. A Counterplot is Unveiled

Chapter 9: A Counterplot is Unveiled  
  
Son Gohan woke slowly, rising out of dreams of fire and cacophony to the reality of sunlight coming through a friendly window, a hard floor beneath him, and a pillow thrown behind his head. For a moment, he floated there, hearing the murmurs of familiar voices around him, and thought he had never felt better in his entire life-- at peace, without a care, like a distillation of every Sunday morning in a whole year. But then, what the voices were saying began to penetrate his consciousness, and reluctantly he opened his eyes to the new day.  
  
He was lying on the floor of Bulma's living room. His shirt was singed, and torn in places-- over his ribs, across his abdomen-- but all his wounds had been healed, and the muffled feeling that had been his concussion of the night before was now gone. Senzu bean, then; he could almost remember someone-- Kuririn? Kuririn's hands, yes, trying to get him to safety. It was Kuririn's voice he heard now, wafting from the other room along with the scent of breakfast.  
  
"...why would they attack Capsule Corp? Have you been hiding something?"  
  
"Nothing I haven't had for the past five years, and more!" Bulma sounded even crankier than normal.  
  
Gohan sat bolt upright. The room he was in was large and empty; and there was something he needed to ask. He followed his nose to the kitchen.  
  
Sitting around the table were Bulma, red-eyed and exhausted, and Kuririn in one of Vegeta's shirts; Bulma's mother was flipping pancakes as a stoic Tenshinhan stood at attention. Chaotzu stood beside him. As Gohan burst into the room, everyone turned, and the conversation died, leaving only the sound of Mrs. Brief's sizzling frying pan.  
  
"K... Kuririn!" He stuttered into the gap. "I--" He remembered his manners, then, and bowed politely. "Thank you very much! But..." a memory flashed into his head, vague and blurred-- a barrage of bullets, a flashing attack, a small body falling to the ground-- "...I thought you... died," he finished, trailing off lamely.  
  
"What, you mean again?" Kuririn laughed. "Sorry to disappoint, but not this time. Tenshinhan brought senzu beans. Why do you think you're feeling so great, anyway?"  
  
"Then Vegeta...?" Gohan said, eagerly. There was still hope he hadn't done any great damage, that an apology would be enough this time to clear everything up. Bulma's accusations were the only thing he could remember clearly from the previous night. Those and a crushing sense of guilt for his role in the whole ill-conceived plot to defeat Vegeta. It seemed like it had all happened so long ago.  
  
Bulma looked up at him fully at last, and he could see the gaunt lines in her cheeks. She shook her head, then turned to take a ferocious gulp of coffee.  
  
"You'll choke, dear!" said Mrs. Briefs, calmly, then turned to Gohan. "Vegeta-san is in the hospital," she smiled. "Still hasn't woken up. Pancakes?"  
  
"Th... thank you..." Gohan muttered, anxiously. What was the protocol for accepting food from the bizarrely unphased sort-of-mother-in-law of the man who was in a coma as a direct result of one's own actions?  
  
Bulma's mug slammed against the table. "Enough of this!" she railed. "Gohan! Explain yourself, before we do it for you! Who attacked our house last night? What did you do to Vegeta? Where is your mother?"  
  
"I don't know!" Gohan protested, feeling weak. Hunger usually had that effect on him. "I... I'd better explain..."  
  
"Huh! NOW he'd better explain!" Bulma muttered. Kuririn, taking pity on him, had pulled him up a chair, and was piling pancakes onto his plate. Gohan took a deep breath and launched into the story.  
  
When he was finished, Bulma shook her head, annoyed.  
  
"I don't know how it got into the drink," Gohan said, for the third time. "I don't even know what can cause that sort of reaction. It must have happened while we were dropping off Goten with Piccolo-san; that's when we were dissolving the muscle relaxers in a pitcher..."  
  
"Still doesn't explain helicopters," Kuririn said, and squinted.  
  
"He just drank it?" said Tenshinhan, cryptically. It was the first thing he'd said in the entire conversation.  
  
"Well, whoever they were, they haven't come back," Bulma said, and stood up. "Probably after the dragonballs, I guess; we'd better go and gather them before someone else does. Goku and I used to get this sort of thing all the time, back when we were dealing with the Red Ribbon Army," she sniffed, proudly.  
  
Gohan was struck with a sudden dread. Vegeta was at the hospital. Everyone else was not. If someone cared enough about getting him out of the way to poison him, then-- "Vegeta!" he said, jumping up from the table, knocking a chair over as he did so. Mrs. Briefs jumped.  
  
"Yamcha and Puar are watching out for him," Kuririn said. "Relax, kid."  
  
Gohan's eyes bulged. Yamcha? Watching over Vegeta?  
  
"Yamcha has been very supportive," Bulma bristled. "He said anything he could do in a time like this; so I told him to watch Vegeta while I went and gathered up the dragonballs. I'm not about to get left behind sitting around waiting while everyone else goes galavanting around!" she crossed her arms, sniffing.  
  
Poor Yamcha, Gohan thought.  
  
"I'll go with you," Kuririn offered. "At the very least, that way we can use them to cure Vegeta, and get Chichi back, whatever's happened. Gohan, want to come? It'll be like old times, back on Namek. Only, uh, less Nameks, I guess. More grass."  
  
"Piccolo," said Gohan. Suddenly the vast quantity of pancakes he'd consumed felt like a ton of bricks. That was the one thing, the one thing he'd tried his hardest to remember! He had to know that Piccolo was all right. He ran to the window and flung it open, heart beating in his chest. He couldn't feel any sort of connection to his mentor. And what that meant for Goten, the biggest responsibility he had in his life--  
  
"Where are you going?" cried Kuririn.  
  
"The Lookout," Gohan said over his shoulder, and then flew up out of the window.  
  
"Wait! Gohan!" Kuririn stood, following after him through the tiny opening out into the sky. Tenshinhan and Chaotzu followed suit, although the window was a little small for the former.  
  
"Hey!" screamed Bulma as they vanished into the sky. "Damn you, what about me!"  
  
***  
  
Chichi was also awake; she had barely slept in the seven or so hours she'd been in captivity. It was hard to tell. The duct tape itched her lip, and after devastating reports had come in on the radio, she'd tried to laugh triumphantly, only to have it come out as bubbly coughing from her nose. She hadn't tried that again. After the last reports, the radio had gone quiet, and she'd been abandoned to her cage in the control room, no idea of what time of day it was, where she was, even if it was day or night. So she'd looked around to see what, if anything, could be of use to her in escaping.  
  
What she'd found wasn't really useful, but at least it was interesting.  
  
A vast jumble of wires and circuitry, enough to make Dr. Briefs proud, sat at the opposite end of the room, hooked into a computer monitor which was currently switched off. At the center of all the maze was an ancient computer chip, archaic in design as well as extremely well-used, and battered, as if it had been in a battle. Part of it was entirely missing, and a light on the side of it was shattered. Tiny wires in profusion fed off of it into the circuit boards, for all the world like a strange mechanical life support. It made Chichi shiver.   
  
Other than this discovery, all the banging on her bars in the world had done her no good. Nobody was around to hear her, so she'd finally given up and lain down, only to find that sleep wouldn't come to her. What could they want from kidnapping her? What did they stand to gain from destroying Vegeta? She was determined not to fall into a cycle of guilt over what she'd done, but she did feel awfully foolish, like a child who'd just learned about snapping turtles the hard way.  
  
The door opened, and a man carrying a breakfast tray emerged from the bright light in the hallway. Impasssively, he slid a narrow dish of some sort of rice porridge through the bars, then reached through and pulled off the duct tape.  
  
Chichi immediately began cursing at the top of her lungs.  
  
"Stop it, please, Mrs. Son," said the man. To her shock, Chichi realized he sounded genuinely distressed; and it surprised her so much that without really noticing, she did exactly as he'd asked.  
  
"Please turn around," he said, and when she did, he cut the bond of her hands so that she could eat. She recognized him now-- Goon Number Two.  
  
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs. Son," he apologized. "It was necessary to protect you."  
  
"Pfotect me fwom wat?" Chichi said, her mouth filled with porridge.  
  
"I don't know how to say this... General?" He called. Mystified, Chichi waited with him, chewing her porridge, as Goon Number One came into the room, and shut the door behind him.  
  
"Mrs. Son Chichi," he said, gruffly. "I'm going to ask you some questions."  
  
Chichi chewed, narrowing her eyes. Better not explode just yet; he might let her know what was going on.  
  
"You have a son," said General Goon. "Tell me, has he ever been... abducted?"  
  
Chichi stopped chewing, then started again more slowly. Cautiously, she nodded yes.  
  
General Goon sighed, then continued. Goon Two looked heartstricken. "And was he missing for a long time... several months, say? A year?"  
  
Chichi nodded again. What was this, trivial pursuit.  
  
"Mrs. Son, I don't know how to say this," said General Goon, with careful seriousness. Chichi tried not to snicker at the way he was unconsciously aping his predecessor. General Goon sighed. "Mrs. Son-- your son is an alien."  
  
"He's only half alien," protested Chichi.  
  
Both men's jaws dropped.  
  
"She knows," whispered Goon Two, in horror.  
  
"The tape! Did you get it on tape?" General Goon said excitedly.  
  
"What tape?"  
  
"Idiot!"  
  
"I mean... uh..." Chichi hastily backtracked, trying to instill a look of terror on her face. "heh heh... all kids seem like aliens. The half that comes from the... the other parent. It's always strange raising kids. You know. My little Gohan, half-- I mean-- all alien? It's not possible!"  
  
The Goon Twins gave her a suspicious look, then shrugged.  
  
"He's no longer your real son," said General Goon, compassionately. "He's been replaced by a Namekian imposter as part of a plan to usurp control of Earth's precious dragonballs and gain dominance over our world and humankind."  
  
Chichi bit her lower lip. Namekian imposter? Sure, Piccolo had changed him, but not his DNA!  
  
"It's true," General Goon went on, Goon Two nodding seriously in the background. "Last night, we attacked the floating citidel which is the center of the Namek power, as well as a powerful corporation which was a mere front for a warrior training program they've been operating for the past several years. That second attack, ma'am, you can be proud to have played a part in, even if you didn't know it; we turned your own silly prank into an opportunity to infiltrate and knock out their main warriors.   
  
"Sadly, both attacks ultimately failed," he frowned. "We may have underestimated this threat to our global security."  
  
"You're completely crazy!" Chichi couldn't hold onto it anymore. "Namekian power floating citidel? International corporate fronts for training alien warriors?" In point of fact, Chichi reflected, it was frighteningly close to the truth, with a tinge of balmy added in.  
  
"I know what you're thinking," General Goon reassured her. "It's what my superiors thought, too, until I convinced them based on the records of the old Red Ribbon Army group to invest money in some basic surveillance and recon. What we turned up changed all of our minds. Lieutenant-- fetch the tapes," he ordered, and the underling saluted and fairly fled from the room, leaving the two of them alone.  
  
Chichi had a crawling feeling along her skin. Surveillance? Someone had been watching their house? This particular, stark, raving mad someone?  
  
"Oh, have no doubt about it, Mrs. Son," General Goon nodded solemnly. "Aliens are living among us. What I am about to show you will send shivers down your spine."  
  
(next time: General Goon conclusively proves his thesis; Gohan visits the Namekian Floating Citidel Stronghold; plus, did Piccolo survive his desperate ordeal?) (heh... didn't think the humor portion was gone permanently, didja?) 


	10. Video Technology For Better Living

(AN: Sorry for the long wait; work swamped me completely at last, and then my computer ate a previous version of this chapter. Them's the breaks.)  
  
Chapter 10: Video Technology For Better Living  
  
Chichi sat in her cage in a funk. Lousy as the porridge had been, she found herself eyeing her empty bowl mournfully. Whatever it had been, at least it had been breakfast. But they could have had the decency to give her some pickles. Or at least toast.   
  
General Goon had his thumb on a remote controller, zipping through several days' worth of surveillance camera footage of her own house. The camera used some sort of fisheye lens which distorted everything, making the view nearly unrecognizable; in a corner, the red numerals that showed the date whizzed by, and day and night followed one another monotonously. It occured to Chichi that she ought to be grateful her breakfast had been so unsatisfying; if it wasn't for the fact that she was hungry and annoyed, she would be dozing off. It was hard to play the part of anxious mother when snoring.  
  
"Aha!" General Goon hurriedly pressed a button, and the video player screeched its way to a more normal timeframe.   
  
Chichi leaned forward, chin in hand. This was the part that was supposed to be proving to her that her son was an alien-- she'd better make up some arguments against whatever he showed.   
  
"At the point these videos were made, we had intelligence already that suggested that the humanoid Son Gohan was actually extraterrestrial; but until we were actually able to document these matters, such speculations had been met with... skepticism." General Goon smirked, then went on: "This tape, however, ended all such doubts."  
  
On the tape, Chichi saw her son coming out of the forest, carrying an immense oak tree overhead.He was hovering five feet above the ground. The camera zoomed in on his feet, and the placement of the noonday shadow underneath him.  
  
Gohan landed, then effortlessly tossed the tree into the air, and jumped after it, out of the range of the lens. The camera swooped up to follow him, attempting to refocus to account for the bright sun; in the sky, a great blur of log and boy darted around, too fast for the eye to follow; then out of the sky and into a perfect pyramidal pile fell perfect wooden logs, trim and well-formed. Slowly, the boy descended to land on top of them, smiling contentedly.  
  
Chichi sat with her mouth open, mental gears whirling. To explain... how to explain...   
  
"Would you like to see that again, Mrs. Son?"   
  
Chichi nodded. Anything for a little extra time!  
  
The General played back the air sequence, frame by frame; what was too fast for the human eye was not, evidently, too fast for military surveillance technology. On the screen, Gohan swooped up, contented, one hand behind his back; with three hits in the space of a millisecond, followed by one final kick, the tree politely obliged the young martial artist by splitting itself into truly exemplary firewood. A small circle of fire from his off hand obliterated the unneeded foliage.  
  
It all took approximately one point three six seconds.  
  
The General paused the video, and turned. Chichi felt like shrinking into herself; all eyes were on her.  
  
"H...he always was so good about doing his chores," she offered.  
  
There was no response.  
  
"You can do anything with video technology these days!" she said, waving a hand angrily.  
  
General Goon cocked an eyebrow, then shook his head.  
  
Behind him, the lieutenant sighed. "In denial," he said. "It's so sad!" He wiped a stray tear from his eye.  
  
Chichi wearily rubbed her eyes. It was going to be a long day.  
  
***  
  
Meanwhile, the real Gohan raced across the sky towards the landmark of Korin's tower, now growing swiftly in the distance. Somewhere behind him, he could feel the others following more slowly, but he had no time to lose. There was nothing, nothing from Piccolo in all the time since he'd awakened-- Piccolo, who always came for him if he was able. Piccolo, who had been tending Goten.  
  
As the tower approached, Gohan angled his flight upwards, grateful for the energy the senzu bean had granted him (not to mention the most excellent pancakes.) So it was that he nearly missed the singe marks on the sides of the tower, or the small chunk out of one of its sides. Double-taking, he slowed his flight, and looked more closely. A battle had taken place here, too, last night-- with a great deal of heavy ammunition; from the looks of it, with much more artillery than he'd faced at Capsule Corp. There was no doubting it; the main battle had taken place here.   
  
Gohan felt momentary panic. If Dende were to perish-- no. He shook his head, trying to shake that thought loose. There were things so terrible that even contemplating them would only lead to ruin. Besides, he told himself, he would be on the lookout soon enough. Sooner. Now.  
  
The damage to the great bowl on the underside of Kami's Lookout made him cringe. For some reason, he'd always thought of the Lookout as somehow unassailable-- a high place away from all danger, where order and Kami prevailed-- even if it could not always help them in their battles directly, still its existence was a comfort in all times of need. However, in a world where even Piccolo was a stronger fighter than God, he now realized, that sort of idea was only a delusion-- a fairy tale. Another childhood dream of safety that would be shattered. Steeling himself for the worst, Gohan alighted on the tiled courtyard, and looked around.  
  
The buildings were immaculate, more perfect than he'd ever seen them; even the leaves on the plants seemed a particularly cheerful shade of green. A few bullets had pushed their way into the floor, but they seemed ridiculously out-of-place, as if someone had drawn them in with a magic marker. And not twenty feet from him, Mr. Popo smiled as he watered his garden. It was as if nothing had ever happened.  
  
Gohan heard the sound of his own heavy breathing echo around the peaceful courtyard, out of place as the signs of battle below; it hadn't seemed to have sunken in yet that the Lookout was, indeed, safe. Mr. Popo turned and nodded at him, and pointed at the main building.  
  
"Thank you," Gohan managed, then looked behind to see Kuririn landing, exhausted from the rushed flight, and followed by Tenshinhan and Chaotzu.  
  
"What happened here?" Kuririn asked urgently. "We saw the wreckage of more than a hundred helicopters and planes down around the village!"  
  
"Ah," a calm voice rang out from across the courtyard.   
  
Dende had emerged from the main building, antenna slightly awry, but otherwise in perfect health. In his arms he carried a laughing child.  
  
"I was wondering when you would come," Dende continued, regally, as he approached them; then he smiled, breaking out of his formality: "I'm so glad you're here!"  
  
"Goten!" shouted Gohan, at last breaking free from his shock. He ran forward, and took the baby into his arms. Goten immediately grabbed him by the nose, twisting it hard. It smarted like the dickens.  
  
"Who chased them off?" asked Tenshinhan, solemnly.  
  
"...could it be Yajirobe?" Kuririn said slowly, scrunching up his cheeks in skepticism.  
  
"Yajirobe and Korin took out a couple that got too close," Dende said, "But they're not much good with aerial combat.  
  
"Mr. Popo took care of the rest," he continued, motioning towards the garden.  
  
Slowly, everyone turned.  
  
Mr. Popo altered his grip on his watering can.  
  
"You didn't think the Lookout was completely defenseless, did you?" Dende asked smugly. "It was just some men in helicopters! I wouldn't be much use if I couldn't take care of that!"  
  
Gohan and Kuririn both reddened, trying to look casual. Tenshinhan smirked and narrowed his third eye in amusement.  
  
"Vegeta's been poisoned by them," Kuririn said. "D--"  
  
"Where is Piccolo?" interrupted Gohan, suddenly frowning again. "He brought Goten here, right?"  
  
Dende frowned. "I haven't seen him! Goten just appeared, right on the edge of the Lookout-- he almost rolled off; he was so muffled in that cloak that we didn't find him until he'd been there for some time."  
  
"Cloak-- Piccolo's cloak?" Gohan said, intently. Goten, annoyed at being ignored began to whack him with his heels.  
  
"Yes." Dende pulled out a piece of the white fabric. "It showed signs of fire and battle, so I assumed he was off fighting somewhere, and someone had brought Goten in his cloak-- in any case, I healed a couple of minor burns, and then the army showed up. I haven't had very much time to find out what's been going on. Vegeta poisoned? How? Was he killed?"  
  
Gohan quickly walked to the edge of the Lookout, leaving the others to explain the night's events to the God of Earth. It had been nighttime when Goten had arrived, so-- there it was. A spot of soot, fifteen degrees from him. He swooped down on it, then knelt to examine it. The pattern was smudged, but the scoring down the side looked familiar--  
  
"Dende!" he called over to the others. "It looks like someone with claws held to the side here, but slipped down. I think Piccolo fell from here. We need to find him. Follow me!"  
  
Gohan dove from the side of the Lookout, freefalling down into the clouds, gone from view even as the others came forward.  
  
"But Piccolo-san can fly," Dende called down, futilely.  
  
"Not if he was already badly injured," Kuririn said, and dove after Gohan, turning as he fell. "Come on!" he shouted up, before vanishing into the clouds.  
  
***  
  
Chichi stifled a yawn. They had been watching videos for the past hour. Gohan doing homework at ridiculous speeds. Gohan training with Piccolo, accompanied by a detailed explanation by General Goon about how these techniques were *particular* to the Namek species. A conversation, partially muffled, in which Gohan talked about being "back on Namek"; and, just for variety, a more recent video from Capsule Corp, in which Vegeta predictably expressed disdain at the humans' capacity for self rule, and declared his intentions to conquer as soon as his training was complete, after which he stalked off to the GR, and promptly accidentally blew it up. Although the last video made her think Vegeta really did deserve everything that came his way, and she felt a momentary lapse in guilt for any part she'd played in taking him down, she had spent the large part of the videos contemplating her surroundings. The dual triangle motif on the mysterious chip-- she thought she recognized it. A symbol of the old Red Ribbon Army, defeated by her husband twenty years ago. Perhaps even one of Gero's designs, although she shuddered to imagine it-- Gohan hadn't been training; Goku was gone. She would have to try to take it out herself, before it had been fully constructed.  
  
Currently on the screen was a close-up of Gohan shoveling mass quantities of food into his mouth. That lunch had taken her two hours to prepare, Chichi thought with a twinge of annoyance; it took him two minutes to decimate it.   
  
"So you see," General Goon was saying, "The space restrictions and digestive capabilities of the *human* stomach are far too limitied to take in, over the course of four hours, even half of what this being consumes in two minu--"  
  
"General Goon," Chichi interrupted, tired of the lecture, "Are you building an android?" She folded her arms over her chest, giving him a stern glare.  
  
General Goon paused, gaping like a stout bass.   
  
"Ah... M... Mrs. Son, whatever would give you that idea?" He hedged.  
  
Chichi pointed. "That is Dr. Gero's technology, if I'm not mistaken," she said. "A central processor for the androids."  
  
"Oohhh! That" General Goon exhaled, relieved, then turned his sternest glare back at hers. The Lieutenant looked nervous. "Mrs. Son, I'm insulted that you would ever think that we would endanger our citizenry like that! What do you take us for, the Red Ribbon Army?"  
  
Chichi's face slid in surprise. They weren't?  
  
"No," General Goon went on, oblivious. "We are your government, Mrs. Son! We are just trying to protect everyone! That's why we must take down the floating stronghold, remove the compromised firm of Capsule Corporation, and eliminate the alien threat to the legendary dragonballs. I know they're after them."  
  
Chichi didn't have the heart to tell him that taking out the Lookout wasn't exactly compatible with *preserving* dragonballs. She sighed.  
  
"No, the chip is merely how we got our initial information," General Goon explained. "We picked it off the battlefield after the Cell Games last year-- it belonged to the robot designated Sixteen. Imagine our surprise to find a large portion of it consisted of databases-- filled with information about strange, inhuman warriors who fought among us unknown, wreaking international havoc!" Goon harrumphed. "It was this find that led me to watch all of these warriors-- although several of them could not be found until last night.   
  
"What we found," he whispered intensely, "sickened us."  
  
Chichi inadvertently stepped back in response to the hatred in his voice. He was so afraid of the people she'd been friends with since she was eleven years old!  
  
"Humans consorting with Killer Androids. Genocidal maniacs left to live in peace without trial to train to kill again! Known former demon lords hidden in the forest; the presence of Namekian imposters concealed from your benevolent government..."  
  
Chichi thought she'd had about enough of Her Benevolent Government.  
  
"You are insane," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Paranoid and dangerously insane. Didn't anyone ever teach you to think about your actions? Who kidnaps people and then expects them to sympathise with one?" She was yelling, now, but she didn't care. "Who blows people up without even talking to them first? Benevolent? I'll give you benevolent--"  
  
She kicked the bar of the cage, in her rage bending it several inches, although it did not break. General Goon lept back in surprise and a sudden fear that he couldn't hide. Chichi jumped against the cage, thrusting her arm between the bars-- her fingers came only two inches short, and then, horribly, the cage overbalanced, leaving her barely time to pull her arm back in before she crashed against the ground with it, bars biting into her ribs like hammer blows. She cried out in pain, but pulled herself to her knees anyway, clutching her side.  
  
"M- My son will annihilate you!" She yelled. "You and your crazy, malicious little men! You underestimate what you are up against, you petty, little man!"  
  
General Goon regarded her sadly as she sat there, panting painfully in her small iron cage. Across the room the old Red Ribbon chip fed its information passively, like a mother bird to its young. "It is true," he said at last. "We did underestimate you last night."  
  
He turned towards the door in silence. Chichi's heart beat strangely in her chest. Angry as she was, she had to swallow back a plaintive cry that they stay with her-- that at least she would not be alone in this cell, under the world, in a land of wires and cold inhumanity.   
  
General Goon turned in the opened door; the bright light and bustle of the hallway spilled in the room, making it seem darker than it truly was. "We will not make that mistake again," he said; and closed the door. 


	11. Picking Up The Pieces

Chapter 11: Picking Up the Pieces  
  
The wreckage of helicopters and small planes was strewn all about the base of Korin's tower; many lying broken in craters of dirt and crushed greenery, others still partially hanging from nearby trees-- a few so badly mangled that they may as well have been refrigerators for all one could tell. To the west, a few small chemical fires burned on in the wreckage. The sheer amount of debris was incredible. It looked as if a freak explosion had taken out a military hangar.  
  
Gohan alighted, dismayed. How were they ever supposed to find anything in this mess? He could feel the ki signatures of the others descending on his position-- the most likely position he'd found for where Piccolo would have landed. He'd freefallen most of the way in order to determine it, so he now trailed a toe in the dirt to mark it. Unfortunately, there was nothing else. Gohan closed his eyes and thought. Wind shear-- wind would push people in different directions on different days. What direction had the wind been from last night?  
  
After standing and dredging his memory with all his might for a good several minutes, Gohan gave up. The location was too different; and he couldn't even remember what the weather had been like at Capsule Corp. He opened his eyes, unsurprised to see the others standing around him, regarding him curiously.  
  
"Any luck?" asked Dende, anxious for his kinsman.  
  
Gohan sadly shook his head. "I thought if I just fell... but I don't know which way the wind was coming from last night, so I don't know which direction he went in. Assuming he even fell in the first place..."   
  
"It was... no, it's too different way up on the lookout," Dende reflected. He frowned, looking thoroughly dejected. "I-- I'm sorry, Gohan, I--"  
  
"--Why not just ask Upa and Bora?" Kuririn put in, then scratched his arm nervously as the others stared at him with blank expressions. "Um... they live right over there. Maybe they even saw something."  
  
Kuririn nodded his head to the left, and Gohan followed it with his eyes to see a settlement of tents in an area remarkably free of wreckage. Smoke was rising from the center.  
  
"Gohan, haven't you ever met them? Upa was a friend of Goku's, a long time ago."  
  
Gohan shook his head. Now that Kuririn mentioned it, he did think he remembered some story... a boy's dead father, the dragonballs-- it was so lost in the sands of his memory, so alike to the other stories that bounced around his head, that the details were lost in the similarities.  
  
"At the very least, we should make sure everyone is all right," Chaotzu piped up, levitating in the direction of the camp.  
  
The smoke trailing from the center turned out to be nothing more than a cookfire. Around it, the entire tribe seemed to be making themselves busy cleaning up their damaged tents. Already the craters near the settlement were empty and the scraps of metal collected for later discard or use, as everyone bustled about putting their home to rights. The only sedentary figure in the whole tableau was sitting right in front of the fire, roasting several fish. His katana lay beside him.  
  
"Yajirobe!" Kuririn said, shocked.  
  
The corpulent figure turned at his name, then shrugged.   
  
"I don't suppose you're going to let me eat my breakfast in peace," sulked the samurai. "If you don't think I earned it, ask Bora."  
  
"We were going to ask him anyway," said Kuririn. "Hey, you didn't happen to see Piccolo anywhere around, did you?"  
  
"That one?" Yajirobe frowned, and poked his fish with a stick. "No, not around here. I'm sorry, but I don't have enough fish to feed all of you..." he eyed Goku's son skeptically.  
  
Gohan blushed. "Will you help us look for him?" he blurted out, suddenly. "Which way was the wind blowing last night?"  
  
"One question at a time!" Yajirobe said, irritably. "I didn't happen to notice the details of the weather last night; being rather busy at the time! But Bora should be coming here soon; the bunch of you aren't exactly inconspicuous, you know..."  
  
"...Kuririn!" came a young man's shout behind them. Kuririn turned, then smiled in delight.  
  
"Upa! Is everyone all right? Do you need help? Good to see you!"  
  
The young man who approached them was tall and fine-looking, with a straight nose and a soft leather shirt. His long hair was bound back with a feather. "We're fine," said Upa, grinning. "Yajirobe came down and helped keep the wreckage away from the village."  
  
Yajirobe poked his fish again, looking vaguely embarrassed.  
  
Upa turned to Gohan, who was gaping at the handsome stranger. "Are you Goku's son?" he asked. "He should have brought you to see me-- I remember the fun we used to have, riding around on Kinto-un, chasing around after the dragonballs-- his death hits us all hard."  
  
Gohan nodded. "Thank you, sir," he said.  
  
"I guess this isn't just a simple visit, though," Upa said, turning serious, "Given the circumstances. Do you need to talk to my father? He's out helping with the cleanup, although he's getting on in years now..."  
  
"We don't have to bother him," Kuririn smiled. "We were just wondering. Someone fell from the tower last night, and we're trying to figure out what became of him. Did you see anything, or notice which way the wind was blowing?"  
  
Upa squinted. "Mm... was this before or after all the helicopters fell?"  
  
"I don't know," Gohan admitted.  
  
Upa shook his head. "With all that happened, one falling body is too small to notice," he sighed. "But the wind was from that direction-- blowing West-Northwest, strong enough to turn twigs but not branches."  
  
"Thank you!" Gohan smiled. "It's very helpful just to know that much!"  
  
"I wish I could help you, but my people--"  
  
"--we understand," Kuririn said. "Your responsibility is here." Upa nodded gratefully.  
  
Gohan looked at Yajirobe, who frowned.  
  
"Forget it, kid," he said. "Breakfast takes priority. A samurai needs his strength! And I have to report back to Korin soon enough..."   
  
"Come back and see us soon," Upa called. "We'll help you if we can!"  
  
Gohan nodded. "Come on," he said to Kuririn at his side. "West Northwest and moderate... he would land over that way."   
  
As the five men sprang into the air, Yajirobe waved.  
  
"Don't you think you should go help them?" Upa asked him, frowning.  
  
"Young man, people like that," Yajirobe said, "if they actually needed help, it would be far too late for people like us to be of any use.  
  
"No, no," he concluded, pulling a savory fish from the fire, "We're better off sticking to things that aren't beyond us. Eating breakfast seems about right for our skills."  
  
He turned his head to the sky; the others were already small and far away, throwing metal wreckage around as if it were paper.   
  
Gohan pulled up a helicopter and spun it off into the distance. This was the right area, in a direct line from the straight freefall route he'd taken, and calculated for Piccolo's weight and surface area and the estimated force of wind that would act on tree branches in the way Upa had described. Still, although he knew it would take time to check the possible area in which Piccolo could have fallen, he felt that Piccolo should have been found by now-- and it made him even more nervous that he hadn't felt any ki in the area besides his friends', none at all. Could Piccolo be... dead? To be killed by a fall like that was no embarrassment even for a warrior like his sensei.   
  
"Here!" called Tenshinhan. "Gohan-- I think he's here!"  
  
Gohan was there before Tenshinhan finished speaking.   
  
"I don't feel him, but I smell blood and burning," Dende said. "Gohan... this isn't good."  
  
Ignoring his friend, Gohan lifted the steel frame that remained of a plane's fusilage, hurling it away like a javelin. Beside him, Tenshinhan and Kuririn worked as swiftly, clearing a large crater. Suddenly, Kuririn cried out and pointed-- Piccolo's turban, crushed under a rotor. With a last burst of furious effort, soon they were gently lifting the body of Piccolo himself out of the crater.  
  
Piccolo looked awful. His turban seemed to have partially protected his head, at least, but the parts of him that weren't burned off had been crushed by his fall. A metal splinter several inches in diameter pierced his back and emerged through his neck; one arm was singed entirely black and shriveled, and another was simply missing. He didn't seem to be breathing.  
  
Gingerly, they laid the body before Dende. Without speaking, the small man gave Gohan a plaintive look-- as if to say that he could make no guarantees, as if he couldn't stand the hope in Gohan's eyes which refused to die out even now. Piccolo had to be alive. He simply couldn't die again.  
  
Dende placed his hands on what remained of the older Namek's chest, and called forth the healing light. The others watched silently as the light poured into Piccolo's body, but it seemed not to be having any effect. Dende closed his eyes, concentrating.  
  
Suddenly Piccolo gave a gasp, then began breathing irregularly. Tenshinhan slowly pulled the spike from his chest, and the wound closed behind it. The withered arm fleshed and turned green again, and a crushed leg began slowly to straighten.  
  
Dende collapsed. Crying out in alarm, Kuririn grabbed him before he could hit the ground.  
  
"It's too much," gasped the healer. "He was too close to gone-- it is as if his lungs were burned away to ashes. I was able to restore them, but his body will have to do the rest on its own."  
  
"He'll live?" Kuririn asked, intently. Dende nodded, then fainted away.  
  
Gohan placed a hand on Piccolo's chest. It trembled. This was what Bulma felt last night-- only so much more. After all, Piccolo was friend and mentor to him; but Vegeta was the father of her child. And Vegeta was not certain to live. Still, he felt suffused with joy. At least no-one had died yet. There was still the chance they would live through it-- and Piccolo remained to him; although it was childish to think Piccolo could protect him always, at least he was not gone.  
  
Gohan caught his hand back as Piccolo's eyes flickered open.  
  
"Gohan," he acknowledged, voice rasping in his throat. "Goten?"  
  
Gohan nodded; yes, Goten was fine. Piccolo closed his eyes, at peace.  
  
***  
  
In a hospital a hundred miles away, a different tableau was playing itself out.   
  
As the nurse turned from Vegeta's bedside, Bulma's hand blindly sought Yamucha's; that old familiar comfort, although that too was only sadness today. Yamucha was no longer her comfort; her comfort lay dying in a hospital bed. Behind her, though, unseen, Yamucha's eyes closed, feeling her small, calloused mechanic's hand in his. Puar rested on the chest of the man in the bed, warming him.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Briefs," said the nurse, frowning. "We were able to isolate the neurotransmitter chemical your husband was given, but it has bonded to one of the cellular recepters in his neurons, and we don't have a way to dislodge it. If we wait, it will eventually in the ordinary course of things flush itself from his system-- but he isn't reacting to it normally. Something about his physiology won't let him just flush the chemical normally-- it's as if his body is trying to fight it instead. We're getting an immune reaction like I've never seen-- the energy that's flying around his brain--" the nurse took a deep breath. "In essence, the patient is attacking his own mind," she went on. "Only his weakened state is preventing him from going into a seizure. It's a miracle he's alive-- he must have a strong constitution."  
  
"Yes," Bulma breathed. "He's very strong. He loves to fight." She smiled. She'd always known Vegeta's warlike spirit would be his undoing, but somehow she'd never imagined it quite like this. So small and petty and internalized; that was the only part that was nothing like Vegeta at all.  
  
"There's nothing we can do," the nurse said, reaching out to touch Bulma's arm. "We can only wait, and hope--"  
  
"Get your hand off me," Bulma said, twitching back; then, "Please excuse me. I know you're doing your best." The dragon radar was in her pocket; if the others were deserting her to fight their own battles, abandoning Vegeta to find an enemy they could fight with their fists, she would have to take care of things on her own.  
  
"Take Puar with you," said Yamucha, as if reading her mind. Bulma turned, surprised; were they still so close that he could anticipate her decisions?  
  
"Yamucha, no!" Puar said. "I--"  
  
"Please, Puar." Yamucha turned back to Bulma. "Puar can give you at least some help. She's good at getting into places. I'll stay here and make sure nobody tries to get at Vegeta-- you need a fighter in case that happens. Even though I'm not much these days!" He smiled rakishly.  
  
"Yamucha, I--" Bulma stuttered. When had he become so selfless? What a contrast from the man she'd chosen!  
  
"Only for you," Yamucha said, maintaining the rakish smile; but she thought he blushed a little, even after all these years. "Anyone else asked me, and I'd be long gone. Good luck! Gambatte!"  
  
"Thank you," Bulma said, then embraced him. He was warm and solid in her arms-- her first love, and her second oldest friend.  
  
"You trying to make me blush?" Yamucha said, embarrassed, and she saw that he had indeed gone entirely red. "Go on, get out of here before I change my mind!"  
  
"Thank you," she said again, then smiled. She would get the dragonballs; she would heal her mate herself, and that Son family and all of the rest of them be damned! She, Bulma Briefs, the greatest mechanical genius the world had ever known! Straightening herself, she fixed her hair, proudly reflecting on how well she'd held up over these years and these torments. A lesser woman would be crying in a corner, but not her; she would take action.  
  
"Come on, Puar," she ordered; and then marched from the sickbed, cat in tow. 


	12. Contingency Plans

Chapter 12: Contingency Plans  
  
Chichi was dreaming.  
  
In her dream, she lay on an enormous grill, tied with cooking twine. Her feet were bony and cold, like a chicken's. The bars of the grill bit into her back uncomfortably. She tried to roll, but she only turned to bump into a skewer of potatos. Really big potatos. An immense figure was approaching, dark-haired and sinister. Glancing up in terror, Chichi tried to make out the features on its face-- the long trailing bangs, the protruding ears-- suddenly it clicked into place. It was herself. A giant Chichi.  
  
The enormous Chichi sighed, and said, "I hope this will be enough to feed them!", and reached forward.  
  
On the grill, the trussed Chichi shuddered in fear. The giant hand was reaching for the gas lever. She tried to call out, but the only thing she could manage was: "Squalk! Squalk!" The hand turned the knob, and the putrid smell of gas filled the air.  
  
Suddenly, over her shoulder, she saw another giant figure. This one was blazing, himself already on fire, but not consumed by it. His frame was solid, heavily muscled, and he glowed like an apparition or a god. Goku, Chichi thought, and the word was a salve to her nerves. She would be safe now. Goku would save her. He would always come for her, this golden warrior, her husband or her son. The giant hand was coming forward with a match to light the grill.  
  
"I'll rescue you," whispered the golden Goku, and he effortlessly pulled her into his immense hand. His flames licked around her, but she didn't mind the burning.  
  
"Go-ku," the huge Chichi said, and her voice sounded like a record played too slowly: "Nnot- ddooonee- yyet."  
  
"Aww, mmom," said Goku, "Butt I donn't waant to studdy annymore..." the hand with her in it was lifting, and Chichi panicked. For a second time she tried to scream, but now she couldn't even move, and the monstrous giant Saiyajin was raising her to his open mouth-- as his teeth closed over her neck, she felt his stinking breath on her face and then the teeth were--  
  
Chichi woke up, panting. Her cage was still on its side, bars jutting into her side. She would have a bruise there tomorrow. Cursing herself for having turned the cage in the first place, she pulled herself to a sitting position. Was it really night outside, or had she only drifted off? Not that it mattered-- the army controlled all her movements, even her day and her night. It was as they said it was. Even her dreams would be no solace to her, it seemed.  
  
"You cried out in your sleep," said a soft voice.  
  
Chichi wheeled, heart pounding. She could make out no-one; the voice's direction was hard to place. She tried to stand, but hit her head on the bars on what was now the top of the cage. Her ears rang; another bruise she'd have to remember this place by.  
  
The voice snickered. There was something calmly sinister about it-- and something familiar, long in her past. "We are both prisoners here," said the voice; "But you, it seems, more than I."  
  
"Who are you?" Chichi breathed. She could barely make out a silhouette, now, standing by the blinking lights of the Dr. Gero's ruined android processor. Or it might have even been her imagination.  
  
"That doesn't matter," said the voice, silkily reassuring. "When I heard Goku was dead, I knew my time was coming. But they still don't trust me, even after I help them; so I'm stuck here for now, until all things fall to me. And all things will fall to me."  
  
"You're no prisoner," Chichi said, accusingly. "You're in league with them! You liar!"  
  
"Temper, temper," said the voice. "You must learn patience. As I have. And my dear, you have already brought the poison I made to its instrument-- but where it was given is not the target it will kill in the end. It is a far more complicated tool than it seems-- truly worthy of the greatest assassin in the world."  
  
A nagging suspicion entered Chichi's mind. The blinking lights illuminated the Red Ribbon bowtie logo on the chip next to the motionless figure. She would play along, she decided; let them give her all the information she could gather, and then maybe, just maybe, she would have enough to make a contingency plan. "I don't buy it," she said. "Nobody can make a poison like that. They either kill you, or they fail."  
  
The man hissed; Chichi held her heartbeat steady, hoping he would take the bait. Come on, she urged him silently; tell me how it works. I'm in a cage, I'm no threat; I'm the only one you can gloat to. That's why you're here, isn't it?  
  
"It may kill him, yes, but in that case, it will indeed have failed!" the man said. "It is a poison designed for warriors. The more he fights it, the more his mind will be destroyed; in the end, I will find him a blank slate, flush the toxin from his body, and enter it as my own." She could hear the smirk in his voice. "I suppose I could have directly poisoned your son, instead-- but there's something about the crunching sensation of the windpipe of the boy who humiliated you, being crushed in your own fist."  
  
Chichi couldn't stifle an involuntary gasp. The imagery was too brutal. Hearing her, the man laughed.  
  
"Patience, my dear," he said. "You, too, will have the chance to feel death at my hands. Once I've shown you the corpse of your first-born son. Then the entire line of Son Goku will pay for ruining my reputation."  
  
"Your reputation?" Chichi said, incredulously. "You calculate and plan the deaths of an entire family because of your reputation?"  
  
"Don't underestimate it! I haven't had a job in two years!"  
  
"Go back to your own cell," Chichi said. She managed a haughty sniff. "Some of us prisoners prefer not to listen to the useless whining of small dogs while we sleep."  
  
There was a brief silence; then the voice said, very softly, "You will regret that comment, Mrs. Son. Mark my words-- you will not leave this base alive."  
  
Then swift and silent as a ghost, the figure fled the room.  
  
* * *  
  
It was midafternoon when the now dusty and bedraggled party returned to Capsule Corp from their morning outing to the Lookout. A barely conscious Piccolo had, for some reason, allowed only Tenshinhan to carry him-- and looked disgruntled even though he had nowhere near the energy to fly himself. Gohan carried his brother, feeling the happy warmth against his heart; and Kuririn, Dende, and Chaotzu followed behind like some sort of midget brigade. All told, even with the cloth disguises wrapped around the Nameks, they'd been quite a sight when they'd reached the hospital where Vegeta was kept. The nurse had refused them entry, until Yamucha insisted that these were, really, the friends of the patient. The nurse had thrown up her hands, but remarked to a colleague when she thought they couldn't hear her that Mr. Briefs was probably a former member of their circus troupe, being something of a midget brigade member himself.  
  
Unfortunately, Dende had been unable to rid Vegeta of the poison that wracked his brain; but he could heal the damage Vegeta's own ki was doing his brain cells.   
  
"I'll be back again tomorrow," Dende had said. "At least if he wakes up, Vegeta will still have a mind to wake up to!"   
  
They had thanked Yamucha for his help in watching over Vegeta, and left to try to catch Bulma before she left; but sadly, upon alighting on the grounds of Capsule Corp and cursorily searching the buildings, Bulma was nowhere to be seen.  
  
"She never came back from the hospital!" Mr. Briefs said, poking his head from under the belly of a half-finished... spaceship? Geodesic dome? Giant Stand Mixer? It was impossible to tell. "She's always been going off somewhere..." he muttered, then poked his head back under the machinery, his words trailing off into muffled incomprehensibility. The ratcheting noise of a wrench against a stubborn bolt soon echoed in the room.  
  
Giving him up for a lost cause, the party reconvened in the kitchen to plan without her.  
  
"I just don't understand why that woman can't be patient for five minutes," Kuririn complained, appreciatively sipping a lemonade he'd purloined from Bulma's fridge.  
  
"Never mind her," Piccolo said. He'd managed to get himself propped into a chair; now able to breathe on his own, his natural regenerative abilities were incredible. Already since the hospital, he'd sprouted a new antenna and two replacement fingers-- not to mention finding the time to materialize himself a spotless white cape, which the humans eyed with envy. Easy to be clean when you can have new clothes at will. "We are facing a conspiracy," he continued, "and it would be wise to pool what we know, so as to best fight it."  
  
"Bulma's gone for the dragonballs already, so there's nothing we can do there," Tenshinhan offered, "and I don't think us going off to train and wait is going to work. We'll just be attacked again."  
  
"With treachery," Gohan said, then reddened: "they were able to poison food that was in our house, and attack Piccolo when he had to defend a helpless baby-- they can turn us against one another. But..."  
  
Piccolo nodded, pleased with Gohan's hesitancy. "But they may already have sprung all the traps they have prepared. Dende, how many aircraft were defeated by Popo at the Lookout?"  
  
Dende counted on his fingers. "Between fifty and a hundred, I think," he said, "But I spent most of the battle indoors. I'm no good in a fight like that!"  
  
"Add twenty to fifty at Capsule Corp," Tenshinhan said, "And Chaotzu was able to scatter the soldiers who survived. They won't attack us again like that."  
  
"...but we still need to get my mother back, and we don't know where she is!" Gohan said, distraught.  
  
"Relax," Piccolo said, turning stern eyes on him. "Our first priority is certainly determining their base. Unless the rest of you prefer to wait?"  
  
Gohan felt foolish. Of course-- when they found the enemy's location, they would find his mother. He smiled. Piccolo was the smartest strategist he knew of, smarter than Vegeta or his father-- despite his own intelligence, it was an ability Gohan had never quite picked up on his own, train as he might.   
  
Piccolo suddenly fell into a fit of coughing that belied his sure command of the situation; slumping over onto the table as the others leant forward in horror, he suppressed the fit, but his hands when he straightened were bloody.  
  
"Piccolo!" Dende ran forward. "Take it easy for now! Help me get him to a bed--"  
  
At the commotion, Goten struggled against Gohan's chest, then began to wail piteously, crying, "Ma! Ma! Ma!"  
  
Gohan's heart leapt into his throat. There was no mother here for his brother. "What do I do?" he said, not expecting a response.   
  
"Take him to Mrs. Briefs," Kuririn said, then turned back to the task of helping the lumberingly huge Namekian warrior to the living room couch.  
  
Gohan found Mrs. Briefs upstairs in the nursery, taking Trunks out of his crib. Trunks, unlike Goten, seemed none the worse for his mother's absense; fairly clearly, Mrs. Briefs was more of a mother to the boy. As Gohan quietly stepped forward into the room, the light-haired boy turned in his grandmother's arms.  
  
"Who dat?" he said, pointing at the baby struggling in Gohan's grasp.  
  
Mrs. Briefs turned, smiling happily to see Gohan standing there. "Well, that must be Son Goten," she said. "Chichi really never visits us here now that Goku is gone, so you've never met him before, have you?"  
  
"Funny hair," Trunks said, pointing at the spiked fuzz that passed for it on Goten's pate.   
  
"You should talk," Gohan said, frowning in mock annoyance. He placed Goten on the playroom floor, where the latter began worming his way across the carpet, mesmerized by the new environment.   
  
Mrs. Briefs set Trunks down. "Can I help you, dear?"  
  
"He wouldn't stop crying before," Gohan said, "Even though I fed him earlier today. But now, he seems fine..."  
  
Mrs. Briefs nodded knowingly. "Well, he has a friend now, doesn't he?"   
  
Gohan looked at the pair on the floor. Goten grabbed at Trunks' foot, trying to get it into his mouth, and Trunks punched him in the head, clumsily. Goten laughed and tugged the foot, knocking Trunks to the ground, then lunging forward with what passed for a baby tackle.   
  
Gohan raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I guess he does." He smiled, and tried to banish any regret from his own mind. He was old enough to take care of himself now.  
  
"Ow! Moron!" Trunks yelled, and baby Goten laughed in delight. 


	13. The Pieces Try To Fall Into Place

Chapter 13: The Pieces Try To Fall Into Place  
  
Bulma shifted her helicopter into high gear, and noticed for the third time that the cat sleeping on the passenger seat beside her, while not actually sharing her coloration, did... compliment it. The fact had been nagging at her mind. What did it mean about Yamucha's taste? It made her brain travel down alleys of thought she really didn't want to follow. She turned away from Puar, scowling.  
  
Puar had already proven her usefulness; one dragonball shone in the boot of the copter already. Without even having to transform, Puar had simply floated down and snagged it from the bottom of a well, then joined Bulma in a mad dash away from the farmer who probably thought they were tampering with his water supply. In a way, it was good to be back on the hunt again, Bulma reflected; it reminded her of old times. Other than Puar on the seat to remind her of the friends she had found, it had somehow all come back down to Bulma Briefs, driving across the countryside with only her trusty dragon radar, hunting for treasure and her heart's desire.  
  
Sudden memory flashed across her mind. A country road; a dark-haired, wild boy, fierce-eyed but grinning, tail flashing merrily behind him. He had thought her car was a monster-- Bulma abruptly felt her throat tighten. She wiped preemptively at her eyes, and shot a glare at Puar, defensive-- but the cat only slept on. Bulma slowly let her gaze drift back to the windshield of the helicopter. There was no country road here; only an aging woman, a sleeping cat, and the open sky below and before them. She was adrift in a barren and empty sea. The dragon radar showed her sure direction, but nevertheless Bulma found she had never felt so lost and alone.   
  
* * *  
  
After leaving his brother to play with Trunks, Gohan wandered downstairs to find the other fighters, only to find that they had already completed a plan of attack in his absense. Tenshinhan had gone to overfly the country, looking for signs of suspicious military activity; Chaotzu was on his way to track the footsteps of the soldiers who had fled Capsule Corp, and attempt to spy on them using his psychic abilities, and determine anything he could. Dende was off to pay an afternoon visit to Vegeta, feeling that his own energy had recuperated more from healing Piccolo, and wanting to give the Saiyajin Prince a second try. Piccolo himself lay napping on the couch-- the first time Gohan had seen him lie flat when he was not severely injured-- in fact, the first time he'd ever been entirely certain that Piccolo was actually sleeping, not merely in a meditative state.   
  
In a way, it was a great relief to him; he hadn't realized how much worry for Goten and Piccolo had been weighing on him. And now, Goten was happier than he'd ever seen him. His head felt light with the lifting of his burdens, but also giddy, questing around for something, as if all that worry had lost a target but not been dispelled. He felt almost disoriented with the sudden lack of responsibility. He hadn't relished having to make a plan to rescue his mother, but now that everything had been done for him, he found himself wanting to simply sit and let his spirit plummet.  
  
He found Kuririn in the kitchen.  
  
"What should I do?" he asked.  
  
"You should probably sleep as well," Kuririn said, smiling sympathetically. "It was a hard night for you, too-- for that matter I should sleep as well-- but there are people I need to check on." He stuffed a sandwich into his mouth, then went on: "We haven't heard anything from Roshi's island, and... someone there..." He blushed.  
  
"I understand," Gohan said, and Kuririn nodded, grateful to be off the hook to explain, and then politely took his leave.  
  
Eventually, Gohan wandered back to the living room. He sat beside the couch. Piccolo was snoring, sharp teeth menacingly bared in his mouth. His turban was askew. Upstairs, the children laughed. Gohan wondered if he should go back to his own house, perhaps study. He held his hands nervously in his lap. Or perhaps he should go to the gravity room, train for the first time since Cell-- but with that thought, flashes of cruel laughter and explosions burst into his mind with all the vividness and immediacy of that horrible day, and he jerked his head quickly, slamming the door on all of the confusion and light and pain. Taking a ragged breath to calm himself, he allowed his eyes and ears to feed him the here and now: carpet. Sunlight. Snoring. He breathed deeply in earnest-- safe again.   
  
The patch of light from the window was slowly wending its way across the carpet. Gohan sat quietly, watching it, and wondered where he belonged. The children were upstairs wrestling and playing, belonging to one another; he felt shut out of his younger brother's life-- jealous of a two year old? No, that was unworthy of him. He just wasn't a child, that was all. He had fallen so easily back into letting the others take care of him; but he knew from his father's words and actions that he was supposed to be the one to take care. He had bungled it up, that was all. Now it was time to take up the reins his father had left to him, demand a place in the plan, go and be the hero-- if only he could figure out how. It had always been so easy to be heros with his father there.  
  
Gohan watched the light slowly crawling, fading away. Funny how when you stared at it directly for a long time, then looked away, the whole room and everything in it was dark and dismal, as if the afterimage of light were not something added to vision, but something taken away.  
  
* * *  
  
The desk nurse stared skeptically at the small figure in front of her. Wearing a baseball cap, truly enormous sunglasses, a scarf pulled up over its nose, gloves, and some sort of strange robe, and measuring in at under four feet, the stranger was not exactly what you would think of as reputable-- but she remembered that the shift before hers had mentioned a bunch of circus performers coming to visit the patient in 408. So she only sighed. If this little kid wanted to put on a disguise, it was his own business; but to be sure, she'd stay in the room.  
  
"Which patient was it again?" she said.  
  
"Vegeta Briefs," said the mystery man, enunciating politely.  
  
"Follow me."  
  
When they entered, Yamucha jumped up from the chair where he'd been dozing, falling into a casual defensive stance and quickly looking from side to side. The nurse jumped back, but Yamucha smiled upon seeing her companion, then stifled a chuckle.  
  
"That's my team," he said, noting the hat. "Dende, I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow!"  
  
"The more often I come, the better his chances are," said the small man.  
  
"Would you mind giving us some privacy?" Yamucha said, without turning his head away from Dende. The desk nurse, who had thought she had been fairly stealthy in taking up a position in the corner behind them, started.  
  
"I'm sorry, I can't do that-- the patient's wife gave you proxy status as next of kin, but this kid doesn't have it, and visiting hours are over. I only brought him here because..."  
  
Actually, when it came down to it, she realized she didn't have a clear idea as to why she'd brought him here outside visiting hours. It had just seemed like the thing to do... she squinted, suspicious again.   
  
"It's all right, Yamucha," Dende said. "I'll only be a minute." He turned to her. "May I touch the patient?"  
  
"What are you going to do to him?"  
  
"Just lay a hand on his forehead," Dende smiled. "Don't worry."  
  
"All right, I guess..."  
  
As the suspicious masked figure bent over the patient, Yamucha tapped her on the shoulder, turning her view away from the scene.  
  
"Tell me, is there a chance he'll have a better recovery chance today than yesterday's chance if yesterday's chance was worse than his chance the day before?"  
  
The nurse spluttered, gears whirling. "I.. wh... yest... his chart, maybe..."  
  
"Never mind," said Yamucha, smiling, "That's answer enough."  
  
"Now see here," the nurse said, "What's this about?" She wheeled to catch sight of the patient behind her, and caught a glimpse of a bright light receding into the small man's hand.  
  
His small, GREEN hand.  
  
"On second thought," she said, smiling, "Maybe you'd like some time alone?" And she ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.  
  
In Vegeta's room, Yamucha raised an eyebrow, then quickly reached for the lock on the doorknob.  
  
"Did she see you? I did my best to distract her..."  
  
"I'm not sure," Dende frowned. "What happens now?"  
  
Someone rapped smartly on the door.  
  
"Open up! Security!"  
  
"There's our answer," Yamucha said. "Can you carry Vegeta? I can hold them off--"  
  
"He's too heavy!" Dende protested, removing his cap and scarf now that his disguise was moot.  
  
"You'd better open up," came the voice again, "The army's on its way."  
  
"The army?" Yamucha exclaimed. "Dende, get that window open, and hurry!"   
  
"It won't move!"  
  
Yamucha turned to go to the window, hesitated-- the door lock was only a simple one-- he wedged a chair under the handle, then turned and punched the window. The plexiglass cracked and splintered, but the thick steel wire bracing the pane cut deeply between the joint of his forefinger and middle finger, nearly splitting his hand. He cursed, but before the shock had been replaced by pain, Dende's warm hand was hovering over his, taking the injury away.  
  
"Can you break it?" the little god asked, intently, as the sweet wholeness spread up Yamucha's limb, in the process healing a sprained muscle he'd had from batting practice and had barely noticed until now. The chair thumped convulsively; they were breaking down the door.  
  
"It will probably be easier to break the wall, actually," Yamucha said, sizing up the wiring that now hung, razor-sharp, in the frame where there had formerly been a window. "I'll need to charge a ki blast-- damn it, I don't know if I have time--"  
  
And with a great crack, the back of the wooden chair snapped, and the door burst open.   
  
Everything seemed to happen at once then.   
  
"One of the aliens you warned us about, and he's--"  
  
"ON the floor, or I shoot--"  
  
"--unarmed. Affirmative, capture alive--"  
  
"...Take him now, or wait and see if we can take more of them?"  
  
"HYAAA!"  
  
This last was Yamucha, as a blast of yellow light sprang from his hands into the wall beside the window, blowing plaster, brick, and boards out into the hospital courtyard three floors down. Two of the guards fell back, gasping, but a third took the opportunity to dive, knocking his shoulders and his full weight into the back of Yamucha's knees. Prepared, his stance perfected after years of training, Yamucha did not fall, but he staggered, and turned to see them shove a bag over Dende's head.  
  
Yamucha went berserk. He knew that he should have grabbed Vegeta and flown through the convenient hole he'd just made before the army actually arrived; his little explosion would attract the attention of his friends, much more capable in such matters than he, and maybe together they could even track the soldiers back to their base. But all he could see was red. Wolves howled in his ears. His hands curled into claws, and he dove across the hospital bed at them, snarling. Dimly he was aware that Dende had caused a small knife to materialize, and slashed at the bag himself before whatever anesthetic the fabric had been steeped in caused him to pass out. Yamucha kicked the knife away; it was too much of a risk to bend and lift it, it would leave him exposed. As his attack hit the nearest guard, a truncheon descended on his neck. He blocked left, ducked, back-kicked the man in the knee-- wheeled as he was falling to strike him in the chin. The guard's neck snapped back, and his head lolled, truncheon clattering to the floor. Yamucha did not turn his head to watch the man fall; the guard before him was doubled over his own injured stomach, and Yamucha raised a leg for a fierce ax-kick strike to the man's shoulder, dropping him cold. To his left he blocked a blow, then dodged quickly as he heard the sound of a gun at close range. Turning, furious, he came on the armed guard lightening quick; the man recoiled in horror, hands shaking on the gun, squeezing the trigger spasmodically, but to now avail as his feet were swept from him, his gun exploded in an unholy blast of light, and his jaw bloodied.  
  
Panting, Yamucha wheeled, hearing the sounds of pelting feet. Outside, a helicopter was descending. Dende was gone.  
  
Yamucha snatched up the knife and ran into the hall to see the door at the end of the hall waggling in the wake of the guards. Leaping into the air, he slammed through the double door as if it were nothing. Half of it unhinged and spun down the hallway crazily, smashing a gurney as it went. Nurses and doctors were crowding into the hall behind him. He could see the one remaining guard carrying Dende in a sack, pelting down the hall as if all hell were following.  
  
A brief grin crossed his face. All hell was, in fact, about to arrive.  
  
He slammed into the guard with his shoulder, ki gathering in his hand, and the man crashed into the hallway at an angle twenty feet away. He flung the energy at the wall, tearing another breach, this one onto the street.   
  
He shook Dende awake.  
  
"Can you fly?" he cried urgently. Dazed, the Namekian child nodded.  
  
Yamucha flung him out of the building, then turned.  
  
Vegeta-- back to Vegeta-- he slammed his way through the hallway and back to the room, then stopped cold. Vegeta's body was gone.  
  
As he stood, trying to decide on a direction, he felt a sharp jab in his rear. Turning, fist first, he saw a white-coated doctor fall to the ground. Several nurses gasped in horror. Yamucha brandished Dende's knife at them, threateningly. The helicopter noise was quickly receding-- all of a sudden, he understood. They'd taken Vegeta through the very hole he'd blown himself.   
  
He jumped through it, hearing the startled gasps again, and emerged into the late afternoon. The helicopter was just a speck in the distance, wavering in the light. For some reason, he was finding it difficult to breathe. He began to chase after it, mustering as much speed as he could, but for some reason what he thought was up turned out to be down, and instead of bursting into the sky, he was descending gently onto the grass. So much for flying. He ran a few steps, then sank to his knees. The world was blending into soft waves of color. Vegeta was alive, but taken by the enemy. 


	14. Turning Point

Chapter 14: Turning Point  
  
Piccolo, as always, felt it first, even from a deep slumber, and sat bolt upright, skewing pillows across the couch. The disturbance in the energy pattern of the world-- one of the bright stars of ki flaring and then falling away, dimmed.  
  
Gohan, startled by the sudden movement, stretched out the edges of his own awareness, until he could sense what his sensei did. As always, it was easier when Piccolo was actually present-- his own mind followed the Namek's, travelling on a path well-prepared. As he came upon the aura, he gasped out:  
  
"Yamucha. The hospital!"  
  
Piccolo sat frozen in position, and did not respond. Gohn could see the irises of his eyes moving smoothly under the lids, as if the Namek were still dreaming-- but he knew from Piccolo's energy that that was not the case. Piccolo's nostrils flared. Somewhere, he was casting his body out, as he did sometimes; he was using all his senses to feel out the situation.  
  
"I have managed to speak with Dende," Piccolo finally said, opening his eyes. "He has returned to the Lookout."  
  
"But why?" Gohan stood, anxiously wiping his hands against his clothing.  
  
Piccolo gave him a sidelong glance. "The Lookout has its own defense. While it remains, and he remains on it, it will not allow the god of Earth to be harmed." The voice he spoke with was old, and seemed to come from deep inside him. Kami's voice.   
  
Piccolo tilted his head slightly to look Gohan full in the eye. "How long did I sleep?"  
  
"I'm not sure," Gohan admitted. "The sun is beginning to set. Several hours. Yamucha--"  
  
"The others are there," Piccolo said, and turned away, relaxing his spine. "Their energies are normal. The danger must have passed. Even now, they are coming towards us."  
  
Gohan extended his senses again, and felt them-- Tenshinhan, his ki smooth and secretive, almost always mostly hidden, and the small, surprisingly intense star of concentration that was the energy of his companion. Yamucha, ki ragged and muted. And one more.  
  
He glanced up at his sensei, looking for instruction; but Piccolo's face was impassive as usual. At least he was awake; he had pulled himself upright, and was looking a much healthier shade of green. The Namekian immune system was truly prodigious. Clearly, though, Piccolo planned on simply waiting; and so Gohan resigned himself to doing the same. After all, soon enough what they needed to know would simply walk in through the door.  
  
When the others arrived, descending before a blood-red sunset, Mrs. Briefs was already puttering around the kitchen as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Dinner, evidently, must go on.  
  
Unable to contain himself any longer, Gohan rushed outside. Tenshinhan landed gracefully, belying his heavy physique, and behind him, a very woozy Yamucha attempted to land, but slipped the final ten feet at the last minute to slide down onto the grass, wobbling on one knee. Behind them, Chaotzu continued to hover, carrying a woman much taller than he was.  
  
"Yamucha!" cried Gohan. "What happened?"  
  
"Is Bulma here?" Yamucha said, his speech slurred and miserable. "Tell her... tell her I've failed her." Then, astonishingly, Yamucha burst into tears.  
  
Gohan looked up at Tenshinhan, who gave Yamucha a three-eyed glare that could only be interpreted as benevolent disgust.  
  
"Pay him no mind," Tenshinhan said. "One of the doctors managed to give him a shot of tranquilizer. He'll come to his senses when it wears off completely."  
  
Gohan turned to the man wailing piteously on the ground. "Bulma's not here," he said, wondering if Yamucha was aware enough to even hear him.  
  
Behind him, suddenly, he felt a stir of wind; and then Piccolo's cape was whirling past him. Seemingly back in perfect health, the tall warrior strode proudly to Yamucha, lifting him into the air with one hand on his collar. Yamucha hung from his shirt like a sack of bones, sniffling; then, gradually, as Piccolo continued to simply hold him there without reacting to his outburst, he quieted down.  
  
"Better," said Piccolo.  
  
"W... I promised Bulma I'd keep Vegeta safe," Yamucha said, his voice still slightly strangled. "But when it came down to it, I rescued Dende instead. My choice let them take Vegeta away. My choice. I tried to follow them, but they drugged me."  
  
Piccolo sniffed, then set Yamucha back onto his feet. "You rescued your planet's god," he said. "Stop sniveling."   
  
Then he turned and walked back to the house, his business finished. The others stood silent in his wake, and Yamucha stared open-mouthed, his mind whirling over Piccolo's words.  
  
Chaotzu was first to speak up again. "Yamucha said the hospital called the men who came to get Vegeta," he said. "I borrowed the nurse who called them. We can use her for information."  
  
Gohan gave the woman in Chaotzu's arms a second look; she was indeed wearing the uniform of a duty nurse. She was also singularly slack-jawed and blank, like a zombie.  
  
Chaotzu let an evil grin play across his lips. "Weak-willed," he said.  
  
"Sometimes he frightens even me," Tenshinhan commented to the air. Then he extended his thick hand. "Shall we go inside?"  
  
They left Yamucha to sleep off his tranquilizer-induced melancholy; Piccolo seemed all too willing to relinquish the couch he'd spent the afternoon on. In fact, he stood as far across the room as he could get from it, and glared at it with some suspicion, as if afraid that it would reach out and grab him into another moment of weakness.  
  
As for the others, it seemed wrong somehow to question the nurse over dinner; so the meal passed quickly and silently until they found themselves rejoining Piccolo and Yamucha in the living room afterwords. If the atmosphere over the meal had been a trifle strained, here, the air was like tension soup. No-one wanted to begin the conversation. No-one was the type to start one. Tenshinhan, Piccolo, Chaotzu-- all were known for their reticence, if not in fact for their uncanny abilities to communicate without words at all. Yamucha was still asleep, and Gohan felt uncomfortable taking any sort of lead. He wished Kuririn hadn't left to check on Kame House. Even Bulma would have been good to have.  
  
"It is a bad sign that Dende has returned to the Lookout," Piccolo said abruptly, as if following some cue that no-one could see but him. "It means that he feels he can best serve the earth by withdrawing, rather than helping us directly. In short, he will keep himself safe so that the Dragonballs will remain to us as a last resort."  
  
"Are you saying Dende thinks we will fail?" Gohan's heart sank. Dende was someone he'd known as a child, and although he knew that Namekian children aged more quickly than humans, it was odd to think of Dende making such a calculated decision. It made him embarrassed that he was relying on the others so much.  
  
"It is standard procedure," Piccolo said, turning to address his point. "It was very rare for him to leave the Lookout at all-- but he is young."  
  
"We'd best get started, then," Tenshinhan nodded.   
  
Neither of them were finishing their statements, but Gohan could draw out the logic himself: it was standard procedure-- for when the situation was about to turn very wrong.  
  
* * *  
  
Chichi sat in the sideways cage, musing on a plan of attack. The mysterious assassin who had visited her earlier-- she thought she had managed to decipher his identity. Something artificial in the way he walked, some quirk of his movement that reminded her of her bygone youth studying to participate in the budokais-- he could hide his face in the shadows all he wanted, but the stance was unmistakeable, even for a woman long out of practice. The stance of the Crane Master's school. A man defeated by her husband so very many years ago-- Tao Pai Pai.  
  
She knew he was not one to be underestimated; a reliance on techniques of stealth and a legendary lack of scruples could make up for a great deal in lack of talent. And Tao Pai Pai had never lacked for talent, either-- only that strange and phenomenal strength that a Saiyan possessed. Even young Goku had barely defeated him.  
  
Chichi shifted her weight. The cage was thoroughly uncomfortable on its side, and the bars dug into her. The visit had unnerved her, too, even though she had taunted him and sent him on his way bravely. She felt itchy around the base of her neck, claustrophobic from the bars. She wished she had some way, any way to move around-- do katas, anything to help prepare herself. If only she knew meditation techniques, like her son had learned from the demon. If only something would happen.  
  
The doors burst open with a clang, and all at once a great bustle of soldiers rushed in, swarming around the room.  
  
"What's going on? What is it?" Chichi said, grasping the bars of her cage with both hands. She was thoroughly ignored. From the dark depths of one end of the room, another cage was brought forward.  
  
"At least put mine back upright!" she complained, futilely, as they bustled around with the new cage, locking it down onto the floor. The bars were much thicker than her own.  
  
A stretcher was brought hastily into the room, borne by many people-- evidently it was a heavy burden, if a little short-- and its contents deposited in the cage. In vain Chichi tried to crane her neck to see around the press of people; her space was just too limited to get a good vantage, and she could only raise her eye level to that of their thighs. They brought in more equipment, then more, heart monitors and an IV stand, many wires and electrodes, until she had almost convinced herself that it was a malfunctioning cyborg that had been brought in-- until the room cleared.  
  
Vegeta. It was Vegeta.  
  
Suddenly, all the noise in the room faded to a hush. There he was-- the problem she had wrought for herself. She felt she was sinking further into the floor. He was so pale-- she had almost divorced herself from it, thought that now was the time to plan escape, not dwell on past mistakes; even forgiven herself when she heard that she had been only a pawn in Tao Pai Pai's plan. But all that seemed like only so many excuses, now-- like Gohan telling her he hadn't done his homework because he'd found a nest of dinosaur eggs. He was so pale. He looked like he was dead.  
  
But she knew he wasn't. She reached her hand out through the bars, nearly pulling her shoulder out of its joint, but couldn't quite touch him. Tao Pai Pai had a way to this room, and he would be coming to claim this body for his own. All that he had lacked, he would find here: the strength, the training, the near-invulnerable instrument that Vegeta had made of his body. Her world would be turned to dust by a tool of her own design.  
  
The military personnel were clearing out, leaving only a few army doctors behind, watching the monitors carefully.  
  
"Will he be all right?" she said, and to her surprise one of them glanced down, as if baffled to hear a voice emanating from the floor.  
  
"Mrs. Son," said the orderly. "What are you doing down there?"  
  
"I knocked over the cage," she admitted.  
  
"Well," the orderly tsked, then turned back to her monitors. "Should have thought a bit first before doing that, shouldn't we?"  
  
"Please!" Chichi thought her throat would crack; she hadn't intended the word to be so forceful, but suddenly there it was, and the orderly was raising an eyebrow. "Tell me what's going on. Will he recover? Where are my sons?"  
  
"I-- I'm sorry," the orderly said, and put a hand to her impeccable hair. "That information is classified."  
  
"I--"  
  
"That will be all, Mrs. Son," snapped the orderly. "We have better things to do than listen to the ravings of madwomen."  
  
"They told you I was mad?" Why would they have done that?  
  
"We know all about how you think the brass is out there hunting aliens."  
  
Chichi frowned. That was an escape route she hadn't even thought of-- trying to convince the staff that the general had gone of the deep end hunting aliens. Of course, that was the truth, after all-- sort of. That was one route closed before she'd even found the door.  
  
The orderly didn't seem to have much more use for conversation-- but at least she didn't seem to be leaving, either. Tao Pai Pai would have his work cut out for him to break into this control room and take up his new Saiyan flesh. Which bought her more time-- and more time for what? She smiled ruefully. More time to wait to be rescued.  
  
* * *  
  
Thirty miles outside the compound and a hundred feet above the ground, a well-manicured woman's hand reached towards a sleeping cat. The hand paused; instead of stroking the cat, it gave it a sharp (if somewhat affectionate) slap upside the head.  
  
"Any other cat, and you'd lose a finger," said Puar, baring sharp teeth.  
  
"Serves you right for sleeping," said Bulma; then remembered to hastily brush away a trace of eyeshadow, left over from a bout of feeling sorry for herself that she'd sooner forget.  
  
Puar rolled her eyes.  
  
"You miss all the good parts when you're asleep," Bulma said smugly. "A big helicopter just went by-- high and fast, faster than any of the helicopters we build at CC."  
  
"Follow it!" Puar said, sitting up.  
  
"I am, stupid," Bulma said, "It's long gone, though. I was able to plot their trajectory with a couple of algorithms, accounting for standard military stealth procedures and the efficiency of their engine based on propellor size and speed... got it down to a five-mile radius, ahead. We'll be there soon. Why'd you think we're flying so damn low?"  
  
"Wait... are you sure this isn't dangerous?"  
  
"Fine words from a bandit!" Bulma double-checked her computerized projection of the helicopter's flight path. They would want to land outside of the target area, so as not to arouse suspicion, then hike in...  
  
"Of course it's dangerous," Bulma relented. "That's why Yamucha sent you with me. To be my guardian while I get into my customary scrapes." She flashed a dazzling grin that sent a shudder all the way down Puar's tail.  
  
"Either way, it's inevitable now," she muttered. "Those stupid Z-warriors couldn't figure out how to operate a radio if it could speak the instructions itself! And my dad would probably forget to tell them..." She pulled in the throttle, watching the elevation level plummet on the display. "Nobody answered the message I sent back to Capsule Corps. God only knows where they've galavanted off to. And if time is important here-- and it usually is-- we may be the only thing standing between Vegeta's life and death!"  
  
"I think you're just curious," Puar said, closing her eyes again. "And like fancy words."  
  
"I think you can shut up," Bulma retorted.  
  
Either way, the helicopter descended towards the wooded valley. 


	15. Loopholes

15: Loopholes  
  
"They're all fine," Kuririn announced, beaming. "Master Roshi wouldn't leave the island, and Umigame agreed-- seems they aren't too worried about any old army. Oolong wasn't back, though."  
  
"Is that... Android 18?!?"  
  
Kuririn paused at the doorway of the Briefs' living room, and his face reddened to roughly the shade of a half-ripened plum. Behind him, the statuesque blonde woman didn't even crack a smile.  
  
Arrayed out before him in the living room was as pretty and as poorly planned an interrogation room as has ever been seen. The sounds of noisy, hysterical children playing wafted down from above, accompanied by bumping noises rather larger than those normal children could be expected to make. The zombie-faced nurse lay on the couch like a psychiatric patient; Piccolo loomed over her looking strikingly out-of-place as usual; Gohan stood with his jaw still on the floor in surprise, Tenshinhan's eyes were bulging (all three of them), Chaotsu was for some reason clutching his head as if in pain, and in one dark corner Yamucha was nursing alkaseltzer like he'd just come off a three day bender.   
  
They were all staring at the pair framed by the doorway.  
  
"So, guys," Kuririn ventured, tentatively. "How's it coming along?"  
  
At that moment the nurse let out a horrible scream, and shot bolt upright on the couch.  
  
"Get out of my mind, you repulsive, horrible, china doll freak! Auughhh! HELLLP! POLIIII--nph."  
  
Piccolo threw an arm around the woman, muffling her, and Chaotzu hit the floor with a thump. Tenshinhan rushed to his side, and the woman struggled frantically and Chaotzu gradually pulled himself to a seated position, looking dizzy. He shot a murderous glare at Kuririn.  
  
Kuririn reflexively grabbed his stomach-- then realized what he was doing and forced his hands down to his sides.  
  
"Look what you made me do," Chaotzu said. "I've lost my concentration!"  
  
"Going well, I see," said Android 18, impassively.  
  
THUNK, said the ceiling.  
  
"Ehh... Goten and Trunks," Gohan explained, pointing at the ceiling. "Just playing around."  
  
"Are you here... to help us?" Piccolo's upper lip twitched slightly, revealing fangs.  
  
Android 18 did not deign to give a response. Of any kind. In fact, she didn't move at all. A worried pall fell over the room  
  
"S...so, Chaotzu, you... you were hypnotizing this... nurse?"  
  
"I was," Chaotzu frowned, wide-eyed face eerily menacing, "until you broke my concentration."  
  
"Can you enthrall her again?" asked Tenshinhan.  
  
Chaotzu shook his head. "She broke out from under my hypnosis. Now she knows what's coming, she can protect herself."  
  
"We got her to admit she was reporting to a colonel in the real army," Gohan said, attempting to fill Kuririn in. There was no point letting the conversation wander into more accusations when people's lives were on the line. "But the contact information was all temporary-- when I tried to call in, they ran a trace. I had to hang up, or they'd know we were on to them."  
  
"Maybe it's about time they do know we're on to them," Piccolo grimaced. This was about as close as he ever came to sulking, and by the expression in his eyes, he wasn't proud of it.  
  
"I don't think she knows where they took Vegeta," Gohan went on, "but that was as far as we'd gotten."  
  
"Took Vegeta?" Kuririn exclaimed, coming forward. Yamucha hid his face in his hand. "What happened?"  
  
At the mention of Vegeta's abduction-- comatose, from a hospital ward, helpless to defend himself-- the briefest of smiles crossed 18's face. Kuririn was eyeing Yamucha's fizzing glass suspiciously as Tenshinhan filled him in on the events he'd missed, when there was an earth-shaking yell, as of an enraged bull elephant. The windowpanes shook; a lamp fell over.   
  
In the silence that followed, the shrill sound of Goten wailing emanated from the upstairs-- and everyone turned incredulously towards the couch, where an extremely enraged Piccolo stood, his hand dripping blood. Below him on the couch, the nurse sat, trying to cover her ears and massage her jaw at the same time.  
  
"I wow't tehw you anytig," she said. Then: "Wai does it take five minuh's ahd a bwoken jaw to bite youw hand?"  
  
"Hmph," said 18, breaking the silence at last. "Let me talk to her in the kitchen for a while."  
  
Shocked, the warriors watched as the nurse looked up, first in hope, then with increasing trepidation as she noticed the varying expressions of disgust, concern, and complete terror on their faces.  
  
It was Yamucha who broke the silence. "Are... are you sure that's a good..."  
  
"I just want to look at her jaw." 18 walked over to the couch, and somewhat roughly helped the captive to her feet. The poor nurse seemed to relax onto the android's arm as she was helped to the kitchen, the others watching them go in shocked silence, as if worried that speaking would provoke 18 to try to help THEM to the kitchen... or send them to join Vegeta, for that matter. In any case, they held their peace.  
  
As the swinging door shut behind her, they just barely heard her parting shot:  
  
"Foolish life forms."  
  
As the others began to tell Kuririn the story of Yamucha's battle in the hospital ward, Gohan kept glancing furtively at the door. He more than half expected yells, sobbing, the sounds of torture-- but the only noise coming from the kitchen was a low, soothing drone of a comforting female voice. It seemed 18 really was seeing to the nurse's jaw! Gohan shook his head. Perhaps they really had misjudged 18 from the start-- all of them but Kuririn, that is. All she had needed was time to adjust to the world-- but no. Gohan shook off the idea. She had blown up cities. He was getting off track.  
  
It seemed like almost no time had passed, but already the kitchen door swung again, and the two women re-emerged, Android 18 still supporting the nurse on her arm-- although now it looked more like 18 was grabbing the nurse to hold her captive.  
  
"Betty has something she'd like to say to you all," 18 informed them.   
  
"I... uh..." the nurse glanced furtively at 18, shuddered, then spoke as quickly as possible: "the soldiers gossipped in the hall. They worked under a general named Gao. That's all I know, I swear!" At the last word, her voice jumped upward to such a high, frantic pitch that Gohan and Piccolo both covered their ears, the latter wincing.  
  
"Is it enough?" 18 said, flatly.  
  
"G... good enough," Kuririn smiled, laughing nervously. 18 relinquished her grasp on Nurse Betty's arm, and the woman fled back over to Piccolo, as if for protection.  
  
"All they did was talk," Tenshinhan said, wonderingly.  
  
Gohan sat quietly, but his mind was moving quickly. Gao-- the name was familiar. A middle aged general-- his mother had forced him to study military history along with everything else, and he recalled a young general from one of the exercises-- perhaps something in there would prove useful... "I'm going home," he announced; then added hastily, "to get a book-- I'll be right back!" And ran to the back door. It was a slim shot-- but it might be enough to find the department Gao was most often associated with, the locations that department had access to, even any information about military protection areas under his authority. He jumped high, feeling the burn of wind on his face, his mind already soaring ahead.  
  
* * *  
  
The helicopter was several hundred feet behind them; with her dark green parka pulled over her hair to avoid the chill, Bulma Briefs was almost unnoticeable for one of the only times in her life-- were it not for the minor oddity of a floating cat.  
  
"How much further?" hissed Puar.  
  
"We should be there by now," Bulma said, pushing the brush away from her path. Roughing it was so distateful-- brambles in her hair, feet turning on slippery leaves, the danger that one might be killed. She almost missed it.   
  
"Sshh," said Puar, then dove into the bushes ahead, hissing, "duck!"  
  
Bulma's heart raced as she dropped into a crouch. At first she heard nothing; then the muted sounds of heavy footfall in a forest. The smell of the wet leaves here was distinct and pungent. Bulma found herself focusing on it as the boots approached, measured in their tempo, inexorably slow-- or perhaps just from very far. She was grateful for Puar's ears; she might have blundered noisily on right into the patrol without them! There were definitely two men, soldiers by the cadence of their march-- almost on them now--  
  
A sudden inspiration sprang into her head. Opportunities were not to be missed. Stretching her arm, she could just reach Puar's tail-- she nudged it. The cat turned, incredulous that Bulma could be risking communication just at the crucial moment.  
  
net, mouthed Bulma silently. Puar looked confused, then suddenly her eyes widened in comprehension and fear-- at just about the same moment that Bulma reached out, grabbed her tail, and in one graceful moment stood up at flung her willy-nilly at the two soldiers.  
  
Whirling in the air, Puar's flesh seemed to stretch and bind itself strong, wider and wider until gaps formed in it, and it was not a cat, but a net of thick rope that flew over the soldiers, entangling them before they could cock rifles, stretching to gag them at their mouths. Clearly terrified, as well as suddenly hampered by rope, the men fell in a chaotic tangle of man, metal, and rope.  
  
"Don't ever do that to me again!" shouted the net.  
  
"Hush," Bulma said, striding forward to take the guns from the soldiers. Too late she saw the flash of a more primitive tool-- Puar cried out as the knife slashed her form, then Bulma's foot was on the man's forearm, and she had the knife. Bulma pressed it to his neck, watching his chest rise and fall quickly, panicked. She could feel herself reddening.  
  
"How dare you hurt her. How dare you?" She demanded, and pressed her new blade to her throat, where she thought the artery would climb. She could see blood pumping in his throat there. "When we take the gag out, you will not scream. You will not scream or I will cut you like you cut her, but I will cut you here. Do not test me-- you are expendable here." She indicated his patrolmate with her head, then turned, and slowly, slowly pulled the wide section of net from his face.  
  
"M- m- monster--" the soldier chattered, eyes flicking left and right to the strange net that held him.  
  
"Enough 'm- m- monster'," Bulma mocked him. "Which way to your base? Where are you holding Son Chichi?" She pressed the knife closer. "Show me with your hand. That way?" She nodded as the free joint of his hand indicated a northwestern direction, up the side of a small mountain. "Inside the mountain?" she guessed, and he nodded quickly. The blade cut his throat, and he said,  
  
"a- a- a--",   
  
then she put the gag back into his mouth.  
  
"Do not try to escape, or we will kill you," Bulma said, stepping back and dropping the knife-- it was time to trade for some bigger ammo. She hefted a rifle. "Puar, let them go," she said. "Both of you-- strip."  
  
Five minutes later, two blue-haired women stood in the forest in army fatigues in front of two very frightened, very naked men. The shorter woman had a thick bandage wrapped around her thigh.  
  
"Is this body all right?" Puar asked, surveying herself.  
  
"Very soldierly," Bulma said. "The blood's a nice touch. Me?"  
  
Puar frowned critically. "You'll pass, I guess."  
  
"What about us?" said the second soldier, rapidly becoming more annoyed than frightened.  
  
"Oh for..." Bulma rolled her eyes; then, quickly, so that she wouldn't have time to second guess herself, she squeezed. The report of the rifle impacted her shoulder, and her eyes closed; she didn't see the second shot, only heard the cries.  
  
"Bulma!" Puar cried in horror. "You didn't!"  
  
Bulma turned her head, trying to avoid the blood that was spread around the clearing. "What was I supposed to do? They would have told their superiors about us. They're military men, and I don't have any way to tie them up effectively!"  
  
Puar's newly human face darkened. "You really are his mate."  
  
"This is war, cat," Bulma said, her voice shaking. Behind her, one of the men was gasping in pain. "We can't afford to not be ruthless. Goku knew that. How many soldiers in the Red Ribbon Army did he kill?"  
  
"Don't you bring him into this!" Puar pointed accusingly at the clearing. "We don't even know if they were involved! We just followed a helicopter, hoping for a break! These are just soldiers on patrol, doing their duty!"  
  
"I never expected to hear such nice sentiment coming from an outlaw!" Bulma shrieked, her chest heaving. She felt sick. The clearing smelled of blood, and Puar just looked at her, shaking her head. The cat was right-- they didn't even know if these soldiers were involved; every minute spent on this diversion was a minute Vegeta languished in a hospital, waiting for them to summon Shenlong and save him. But she couldn't abandon this diversion, not just yet; every adventurous bone in her body-- and every bone in her body was adventurous-- was telling her to go to this base. Opportunity didn't give her Capsule Copter a flyby every day. She knew her decision to kill these men had been right, and that now for time's sake she also had to walk away from them. But Puar's eyes on her face, the warm light filtering through the treetops onto a disgusting, havoc-filled clearing-- she found she couldn't just do that. She couldn't walk away after all.  
  
At times she had felt that as Vegeta softened to the world, those in close contact had hardened around to support him-- or perhaps had always been that way, that she was never soft like the others. But that didn't mean she had to be as ruthless as he was, all the time.  
  
Bulma reached into her purse, pulling forth two beans.  
  
"Senzu..." Puar marveled. "Did..."  
  
"Filched them from Chaotzu for us," Bulma said. "Only two." She knelt gently beside the battered men. One she'd only got in the thigh, although he was bleeding heavily; the other had been hit in the stomach, and was barely breathing. The man hit in the thigh shied away from her, but was too weak to prevent her putting the bean into his mouth. She stroked his throat, forcing him to swallow.   
  
"Then that means..."  
  
Bulma stood up, her work done. Already their wounds were closing. "Now we're really on our own." She cocked her head. "Although I don't see what you're worried about; you can just fly back to Dende if you want to. I'm the one who's Earth-bound."  
  
The soldier who had been wounded in the stomach patted his unscarred flesh, wiping the blood from it. "Wh.. what are you?" he said.  
  
Bulma turned, cocking the gun. "Ghosts and witches," she said. "Get out of here and never come back! Next time we won't be so merciful!"  
  
As one, the men fled, shivering in the chill breeze, leaving the women to their claim: directions to a secret base, disguises, two rifles, and two miracle cures the less.  
  
"Was that your plan all along?" Puar asked, looking slyly at her companion. "To let them go, just scare them by shooting them in the guts?"  
  
Bulma shot a blank look at Puar, then kept walking. Some things a girl had to keep to herself.  
  
Forty minutes later, they arrived at a door in the ground.  
  
Small, only four feet high, and set at a 45 degree angle in a sloping rock face, it was guarded by two soldiers, two padlocks, and a complicated-looking keypad security device.  
  
"We're here to relieve you," said Puar, saluting.  
  
"We were expecting Shiu," said the shorter soldier, a woman.   
  
"Ah, no matter-- you guys are late!" said her companion, stretching his arms in a wide yawn. "I'm for barracks. About time I got a little break for sleep and grub."  
  
"You guys knock yourself out, all right?" said the woman. "Watch for ghosts."  
  
As easily as that, the shift was turned over; and as the backs of the fatigues vanished mistily into the night, Puar and Bulma turned their attention to the locking systems.  
  
"The code box is mine," said Bulma. She pulled a small screwdriver from her purse-- at last, here was a challenge up her alley! Enough of this running around with guns and soldiers and shapeshifters.   
  
"And these are mine," said Puar, to Bulma's distress shrinking abruptly into nothingness, the clothes dropping to the ground. Bulma started back in horror.  
  
"Here, Bulma," came the squeaking familiar voice. She wheeled-- there was a set of iron keys, with Puar's bandage hanging from the ring, floating in midair. Bulma laughed.  
  
"I'd forgotten that trick," she said. "But it will take me a little longer with mine. This is a pretty sophisticated system here... but we should be able to get in with... heh, I guess it wasn't as sophisticated as I thought," she frowned, a little disappointed, as the lock fizzled, the red light flicking to green, and there was a clicking noise. "No challenges today, I guess," she gloated, grabbing Puar out of midair.  
  
"I mmmph-- think we've had about enofphh-- challenges for one day-- whew!" Puar popped back into human form, pulling her uniform around her. Both padlocks were open. "Better stay in costume for now," she whispered, and they cautiously pushed the door open.  
  
A dark hallway greeted them, curving away into the depths of the hillside. Somewhere ahead, far ahead, the noise and bustle of a military base echoed in contrast with the forest noises that surrounded them.  
  
"Well," whispered Bulma as she pocketed her tools, "it looks like we've found the back door."  
  
"Quick, before they notice," hissed Puar; and they slipped through the door and pushed it shut behind them, softly, crouching there, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dark. 


	16. When She Stood With The Warriors

Chapter 16: When She Stood with the Warriors  
  
An exhausted Puar dropped back into her cat form, tongue hanging out to pant, in the relative security of a darkened side-corridor. They had been wandering the complex blindly for over an hour, discreetly trying to catch word of any activities that would pertain to the attacks on Capsule Corporation, or the abduction of Chichi. So far all that they had discovered was that they needed to investigate more. In the hallway only a few meters away, uniformed and non-uniformed military personnel bustled about, not noticing that the two common soldiers had suddenly become one.  
  
"I can't do that again for at least ten minutes," Puar panted. "I shouldn't have tried to hold the form as long as I already had."  
  
"It's all right," said her companion, distracted. Bulma looked everywhere but at the cat, huddled miserably in the pile of combat fatigues, scanning the hallway. "Ah, how's the leg?" she asked.  
  
Puar looked to the bandage on her thigh. "Bleeding's stopped, I think, but it hurts. I've been faking the walk with a levitation trick, but I'm so tired now... I don't know if I can fly anymore, either."  
  
"Give it time." Bulma paused beside a fuse box, pulling a screwdriver from her purse. "This will take me a couple of minutes, anyway... ah, good."  
  
"What are you doing?" Puar nestled into the warmth that was spreading into the rags, eyeing the outer hallway suspiciously. Wouldn't somebody object to a GI messing with circuitry? So far, nobody seemed to.  
  
"If I can find the right wires, I might be able to hook into the basic information network and shunt the data onto here..." absentmindedly, with her left hand, she popped a capsule, pulling a small electronic pad from the stash of junk that was deposited on the hallway. "And I think I've got it, right... here! Good..."   
  
Bulma was silent a few seconds, scanning up and down, trying various linkages from wires; then she shook her head, quickly disconnected her wires and closed the fuse box, coming to sit beside Puar, who was by this point a mess of nerves. Tentatively, Bulma reached a hand down to pet the cat.  
  
"Not too much good, but some good," she said, keeping her voice matter-of-fact, as if hoping Puar wouldn't notice a gesture of kindness. "I've got a map of the base-- look, central command, barracks, armories-- it's all here." She frowned. "Well, I guess the first thing we can do is avoid the central command at all costs! -- bound to be crawling with brass, and who'd keep a prisoner there? We're too close to it for comfort already! I say we head here--" she jammed a finger at the pad, "to the MP office. There's a back corridor we can take."  
  
"I can't do anything for a little while," Puar reminded her. Bulma snorted, gathering the cat up in the folds of cloth and slinging the whole bundle over her shoulder.  
  
"Who said anything about needing your help, anyway?" she sniffed. "Stupid Yamucha. He should have kept you there. You may as well go to sleep for all I need you."  
  
Gratefully, Puar let her eyelids drift down, as they made their way down the corridors away from Central Command.  
  
* * *  
  
In the sideways cage in Central Command, Chichi gazed up at the limp Vegeta, dreaming of revenge.  
  
The General had returned to duty, along with several lieutenants and the duty nurse to Vegeta, the same unsympathetic woman who had come in with him earlier that day. They had brought her food again; rice and turnip and some truly pungent dried fish, so hard that chewing it was like trying to chew twigs. They were still ignoring everything she said. However, she could understand why her words were hardly a priority; they seemed to be planning an attack.   
  
"Omega targets have all converged in the Blue," reported a female lieutenant.  
  
"And Beta?"  
  
"Beta target is currently on radar," said a low voiced man. "He departed Blue at seventeen hundred, but is now returning. Some kind of speed he's got-- what's he flying, an F-16? It must be a very light craft, from the shadow..."  
  
"Something like that," the General said. "Just track him, I'll sort out the details. The status of our plan?"  
  
"Surveillance teams three and four were unable to get close enough to plant any devices without arousing suspicion, but the gas is ready to be deployed from our remaining planes, and units twenty through forty three are converged and approaching position, with the remaining units waiting in defensive locations," reported a lieutenant. "Should be at position at 19:30 hours."  
  
"Good."  
  
"He's betraying you," Chichi said, for the what felt like the twelfth time. "Tao. He came and talked to me. He didn't poison Vegeta for you-- he designed it so that he can take over this organization. He's only out for revenge. He doesn't care if he takes you with him!"  
  
  
  
"We have no prisoner "Tao"," said the General, frowning at her. It was the first time he'd responded-- clearly, he was starting to feel confident!  
  
Chichi jumped at the chance. "Whatever name he's using," she said, clutching the bars of the cage eagerly. She could see up the General's nose, and that he didn't shave under his chin properly. "Listen, how could I even know you have this prisoner who made the potion if he didn't come to see me? He's not under your control-- you have to execute him, lock him up better-- he's dangerous!"  
  
"Most people are dangerous," said the General, smiling knowingly. "Don't toy with me, Mrs. Son; Mr. Crane knows which side his bread's buttered on. He's never given me bad intelligence. And don't assume you know more about what goes on in my base than I do! His locks were replaced last night." He folded his arms. "Mrs. Son, I'll be frank. Last time we spoke, you practically threatened to kill me yourself! Why would anyone in my position with even a grain of rational sense listen to anything you say?"  
  
"Because he'll kill all of us," Chichi said, desperate, but the General had already turned.   
  
"Get a camera feed on Mrs. Son, here," he ordered. "She's our ace in the hole. Order the troops to move into position. Target Beta?"  
  
"Beta is T minus three seconds to location Blue," said the female lieutenant. "With the exception of the blue woman, all of our eggs are in one basket."  
  
* * *  
  
Gohan alit on the back walk of Capsule Corporation, textbooks under his arm. Without the new, puppyish growth to his limbs, he couldn't have carried so many easily in such a manner; the stack was considerably thick. Without breaking stride from his flight, he raced into the room, calling excitedly,  
  
"Piccolo-san! Kuririn!"  
  
Jumping into flight over a table rather than walking around it-- the sort of behavior Chichi frowned upon in his own house-- he whisked into the living room, plopping his papers and books across the floor in a great, but purposeful sprawl.   
  
"I take it you found something," Piccolo observed. It would almost have been sarcastic-- had Piccolo put that much of a modicum of emotion into his voice. Gohan smiled benevolently, ignoring the remark.  
  
"General Gao Katsu," he recited off the top of his head, flipping to the page that had held the relevant information. "Rose to the head of the administration of the scientific military liaison branch, was in the national news briefly over the affair of a crashed spacepod about ten years ago; he discounted it as an experimental craft from a foreign nation."  
  
"Was that Vegeta's spacepod?" Yamucha asked, emerging from his corner.   
  
Gohan nodded. "From what I can read of him, he seems to always have been in some way connected to military presence in paranormal affairs."  
  
"Read, our affairs," said Tenshinhan.  
  
"But here's the good part," Gohan said, finding his page at last. "Look at this."  
  
Kuririn, Piccolo, Tenshinhan and Chaotzu, along with the still somewhat sheepish Yamucha, all bent heads over a heavily highlighted spread of tiny text. Inconveniently, this had the result of blocking out most of the light; however, the stoic warriors did not stray from their mission: to figure out what, exactly, Gohan had found so interesting on this particular page.  
  
At last, Kuririn said, "err... so, to sum up...?"  
  
"Oh! Ah... heh heh..." Gohan blushed, darting under Piccolo's arm to slam the book closed. Of course they wouldn't be able to figure it out from his own notes! Did Piccolo even read Earth languages? "Well, area 85 is generally believed to be in the northwestern 236 Mountain District..." He looked around at the blank faces, then continued, more slowly: "And the nearest unsurveyed region is the 237 District, which was marked on this geologic map as restricted for mining..."  
  
The other faces still regarded him, blankly, although Yamucha's eyes, at least, were beginning to drop back from exhaustion. Gohan figured he'd better wrap it up.  
  
"...but no major mining companies have staked a claim on any of the territory, which means it's private land that the government wants no-one to know that they own. Perfect way to hide a base, and it's terrain Gao knows from his days working with the bandit group in the 236. If I were him, I'd say it was a perfect place."  
  
"So you think Vegeta's there?" Kuririn asked tentatively.  
  
Gohan nodded. "Probably my mother too," he said, unable to stifle a silly grin. At long last, he would be able to find them and correct this awful mistake they had made. He knew he should be serious, turning his mind to the coming fight; but he was just so happy, happier than he'd felt since he'd found out Goten and Piccolo were still alive.  
  
"Can everyone be ready to leave in five minutes?" Kuririn asked, going into planning mode. "The 236 mountain area is a good six hours by airplane, but we can get there much more quickly, I think-- especially Gohan and Piccolo, I'd imagine--"  
  
Piccolo closed his eyes, concentrating. "Dende knows what we plan. Kid says he'll be watching over us."  
  
Tenshinhan dropped to a crosslegged position. "What do you think-- a frontal assault by our best fighters seems best, for speed."  
  
"Yes," Piccolo said. "We will try to enter the compound as swiftly as possible. You and Chaotzu will protect our flanks; Kuririn, Yamucha, you try to attack the back of their forces; that way every fighter works with someone whose style he knows."  
  
"Heh... hardly anymore," said Yamucha.  
  
"Wait!" Gohan said, standing up. He gazed at the others in consternation. "I should be the one to go. You shouldn't get involved!"  
  
"Gohan--" Kuririn said.  
  
"There will be plenty of opponents for all of us," Piccolo said, turning to lecture him. "It is no time to become greedy. They may be weak, but there are a lot of them. Remember they have defeated us in small groups before."  
  
"No, that isn't it--" Gohan protested. The thought of hogging all the battle for himself had never crossed his mind-- it was almost laughable! Hog a fight? He didn't even want to fight anymore, at least not seriously! Or at least, he thought he hadn't, until something big was at stake: his mother. "No, it's just that-- this was my mistake. I should be the one to take care of it; you don't have to put yourselves at risk--"  
  
Wordlessly, Kuririn came forward. Looking the trembling young man in the eye, he reached a hand out and put it on his shoulder. It felt warm, heavily reassuring; Gohan took a deep breath, wondering what Kuririn would say. Scold him, as Bulma had? He didn't think he could bear it-- not after baring his innermost feelings of responsibility, his culpability in the matter. Not after trying to shoulder the new burden that he knew must fall on him now that he was an adult.  
  
"Gohan," said Kuririn. "We always stood together when your father asked us. Now, no matter whether you have made a mistake or whatever reason you have brought this trouble to us, we would stand with you. Not just for Goku's memory, but for yourself. You don't have to fight this opponent alone. Will you let us help?"  
  
Gohan stood, mute. This didn't sound like what his father, what Piccolo had taught him-- true Saiyans fight alone. Through inner strength one faced one's opponents, in single battles, honorable combats as warriors. But then to think back-- Piccolo and his father, together, had defeated Raditz. Even Yajirobe had helped to take out Vegeta. And how could he refuse help when it was offered to him thus, like a favor he was granting the others? He suddenly felt rude, callous for having tried to refuse it in the first place.   
  
"Yes, of course," he blurted out, shying away from Kuririn's hand. The bald man smiled, happily.  
  
"Then it's settled," he said. "In five minutes, we leave. Who wants a snack?"  
  
Yamucha and the others all headed to the kitchen, Gohan at the head of the fray-- eating was something he would always understand-- when a green arm extended farther than it should have been able to, catching him and holding him back from the others.  
  
Gohan turned and faced his mentor.  
  
"Your mother," said Piccolo, "Is the most foolish woman I have ever seen. But she is also quite clever." Gohan stared, waiting for Piccolo to continue. "Without all of this learning she crammed into your head, we might never have found this base. Even if we win with pure strength, and victory belongs to you and to her, not to any of us."  
  
Gohan smiled. His sensei still thought he wanted the credit for the battle ahead. But he hadn't thought of it before-- what his mother had said, just yesterday, trying to cheer him up-- that lesson was coming home to roost, although not in the way she'd thought it would. He didn't have to bear the weight of the world on his martial prowess; his other endeavors were worthy, even in a battle. And he did not stand alone. His friends wouldn't even let him if he wanted to. Nodding at Piccolo, in acceptance of the value of his mother along with her flaws, he took his leave to grab a bite before departure. He would need his strength for the battle ahead.  
  
* * *  
  
The Military Police officer, from behind his meticulously organized desk, regarded the blue-haired GI with the strange backpack with suspicion. The soldier seemed a little too nervous. Then again, her bust was awfully distracting... a man in his position should have been mentally impervious to such temptations, but the way she bit her lower lip...  
  
"Er, ahem... you say the prisoner has been requisitioned to be moved?"  
  
Bulma nodded, relieved. It had been a long shot, but there was indeed a prisoner being held in the lockup!  
  
"They usually send more... soldier, is that a... cat?"  
  
"Uhm..." Bulma thought fast. "Yes?"  
  
The officer shook off a momentary wave of dizziness as visions of fluffy critters and buxom women danced through his head. No, no-- the task at hand-- he had to get away from this woman!   
  
He stood up quickly, moving towards the lockup, leaving Bulma to stand in front of the desk, waiting. As he retreated whistling, Bulma let her shoulders relax. The neon lights whined, flickering yellow over the corner of the desk. There were no windows.   
  
"My god, if I had to purse my lips at him one more time, I swear..." she muttered.  
  
As she let herself relax, checking to see that Puar was still sleeping peacefully, there was a sudden yelp from within the cell block, and pattering feet. Bulma leaned over the desk, trying to get a glimpse down the hallway, and had almost managed to get an angle- it was difficult with Puar dangling precariously off her shoulder-- when the officer re-entered the room in a panic, skewing the carefully organized papers all over the room and knocking Bulma to the ground in a mad grab for his radio.  
  
"Central Control," he said, voice urgent. "Central Control, this is Lieutenant Shimada-- the prisoner, sir! He's escaped!"  
  
Bulma, rubbing her hip, restrain her disappointed yelp: "He???"  
  
* * *  
  
The news hit Central Command like a panic attack. Before Chichi's bemused eyes, a calm and controlled military base became a frenzy. The two men who had just set up a camera on her cage were delegated by General Goon to come with him, along with the junior lieutenant, leaving only the senior lieutenant and two young officers running the central command. And Chichi could hardly blame the frenzy. It seemed Tao Pai Pai had escaped.  
  
She knew where he was going.  
  
Heart pounding, Chichi curled her legs into a tight ball. Curse the military idiots for leaving the central command and the prisoners with such a small guard! She'd just have to hope they would be sufficient; Tao must have learned of Vegeta's arrival, and was coming to claim his prize. All her waiting for rescue would have come down to this helpless moment: they would be too late. Vegeta would be irrevocably lost. Her shame would be complete.  
  
Moments passed that seemed like aeons to the accelerated butterfly beat of her heart and mind. The corners of the room seemed to be stretching out their darkness like fingers to grasp the unconscious man who lay ailing on the bed beside her. He was beyond her reach.  
  
Like gusts of wind, before her eye could catch onto a direction, three darts hissed across the room and into the necks of the military personnel. Two fell immediately; the senior lieutenant grasped hers from her neck, reaching for the comm, but by that time the assassin was upon her like a great, silent panther, striking her shoulder, then moving quickly to wedge an iron bar into the door.  
  
Slowly, the room now empty of life but for the three of them, the mysterious man turned to face his victims.  
  
"I know who you are," said Chichi, "Tao Pai Pai."  
  
The man just laughed, relaxed, stepping forward with a menacing grin-- and she could see now that her guess was accurate. The fact did not console her.  
  
"I never tried to hide it from you," he said, and stepped to the lock on Vegeta's cage.  
  
"Leave him out of it," Chichi said, desperately. She was quivering with fear, but fool that she had always been, she just couldn't leave well enough alone. Couldn't just keep her idiot mouth shut. It would be the death of her one day, Chichi reflected, but shouted out: "Your fight is with me!"  
  
Tao turned, letting a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. "All right," he said. Then, almost without warning, his foot lashed between the bars, striking her in the mouth.  
  
She went down, stunned, her mouth a mountain of pain. Several of her own teeth had cut her cheek, and she tasted blood, then spat it onto the floor. Tao Pai Pai was laughing.  
  
"An opponent in a cage," he said. "I like those odds. Just give me a minute to make them even better. I'm sorry for the delay, most honored opponent--" he gave a little mock bow-- "But what's a little more waiting to woman in your... position?"  
  
Chichi pulled herself upright. The injury to her mouth was painful, insulting, but not serious. It was to shame her, she knew; she was no novice to the tactics of battle. Dishearten her, and there would be no fight.  
  
But there already is no fight, she argued to herself. I'm in a cage. Vegeta is as good as lost. What can I do?  
  
Tao Pai Pai dripped a potion into Vegeta's mouth. "There," he said. "This body will awaken in ten minutes-- but it won't be yours anymore, fool."   
  
As Chichi watched, horrified, he closed his eyes, as rapt as Piccolo on his meditation. His pinky finger twitched.  
  
At the same time, in response, so did the Vegeta's.  
  
Chichi closed her eyes. She knew she should be horrified, but somehow what she felt was an overwhelming anger. Anger that he should humiliate her this way, to use her like a weak, powerless pawn. Was that all she had become? I can't do this, Goku, she cried out angrily in her head. I can't raise your sons. I am small, I am weak-- how could you leave me here so small and so weak?  
  
Her mind strayed back, beyond her control, to the twenty-third Tenkaichi Budokai. She'd been angry then, too, so angry with Goku-- then so helpless when he had fought Piccolo, she could only stand, wide-eyed, clutching her mouth, wondering whether the future she'd only just won for herself would fall from her grasp as easily as that.  
  
But she'd stood, not with the spectators, but with the warriors.  
  
Yes, that had been her connection with Goku-- not love, not at first, nor a desire for children; but a kindred spirit, a love of the fight, of the chase; and a respect for the warrior she'd known he would become. A warrior like she had been. With shock, she realized then that this was also Tao Pai Pai's era-- when she had fought toe to toe with Goku, Tao had been one of his competitors. He was as much a relic as she! Why was she in this cage, and he the winner again? True, he was stronger than she was, but she could have had a chance against him. Won some more time against him. Matched wits and forms, if only she could have had the chance. The chance, she just needed that one chance--  
  
That one small, golden ray of hope that had always come when Goku had needed it most. The anger that had fueled his transformations, the desperate need, the ability to change that ran in his Saiyan blood-- by what rights was her human anger less potent? Gohan's anger, after all, came from her, she knew. It was her own anger.   
  
Goku, she thought, offering a prayer. Goku, show me how. I remember when I stood with the warriors. Help me to stand with them again.  
  
Then, like the presence of the sun, like his presence in her strange dream before, she felt him around her. Not his voice, no, but his warrior spirit-- the connection that had first formed between them, the life force that was the spark of their children, flamed into being, connecting her to realms that mortals can only touch perhaps once in a lifetime. Suddenly she was bathed in his power, searing her skin-- the aura too hot for her nerves, as if every cell in her body was in childbirth to some ungodly being of energy, streaming from every pore in her skin. She opened her eyes-- her vision had gone blurred, and yellow, and she felt strong, ghosted with a might that was not her own-- her fist a child's fist guided by the strength of a parent's arm wielding it. It was not one of Goku's transformations, no, she could not have sustained the energy a Saiyan's body was capable of channeling-- but for just that second, what power he had in the afterlife he was now lending to her. If her body could withstand it.  
  
Her form was glowing with borrowed power. She struck with the butt of her hand against the bars, channeling all the horrible, incredible fire into them; they shattered like crystal against the floor. She staggered forward then, fires guttering around her, body screaming in protest at the vast energy that her hour of need had forced on her. A little too much, Goku, she thought wryly; but stood up bravely, her legs wobbling only a little, and assumed a stance. The borrowed power, however she had obtained it, had deserted her; she felt weak, and somehow singed-- she would pay for the burst of energy later; it had drained her reserves, and she knew of no precedent for what effects such a transferrence would have. But for now she would have to fight on her own power, or what she could muster of it. However, there was no reason for Tao Pai Pai to know that.  
  
The assassin was staring at her, open-mouthed.  
  
"I said," Chichi pulled a hand back, lowering her balance into an attacking stance: "I am your opponent today."  
  
She barely saw the two poison darts, ducking between them as they hissed by; one bore a hole in her sleeve. When she regained her balance, it was to see the assassin, Vegeta's body lolling across his shoulders, vanishing behind a panel in a dark corner of the room. So that was his secret door. The military personel had noticed the barred door and were shooting at the lock. Chichi grabbed the old Red Ribbon Army chip from the machinery in the corner-- too much information was on it to leave it in enemy hands, and she could deal with it later-- then ducked through the secret door, free at last, and in full pursuit. 


	17. Chichi Takes Charge

huh-- three new chapters, only four reviews? I guess I was gone so long I lost most of my readers! :-( Anyway, I'm being courageous in my writing this time around-- never done a single-combat scene before, and I'm nervous about it. If ever there was a time I needed some feedback, this was it!  
  
Sometimes I worry that having a main character who is pretty universally maligned by the fan character loses me readers. I think they'd like the story anyway... Heh. I'm like a worried parent myself. No wonder I'm writing about Chi. Sheesh.   
  
Oh yeah-salut, DBZ FFQ! Tao Pai Pai=General Tao.   
  
Yrs, -- Kettr.  
  
17. Chichi Takes Charge  
  
She ran through the darkened passage, breathing heavily, ignoring the pain that still shuddered along her nerves and blossomed in her cheek. Close ahead was her quarry, the assassin Tao Pai Pai, huddled under the weight of the unconscious warrior Vegeta, slowed down by him in the damp, narrow tunnel. If this was part of the original base, then it must have been some sort of emergency escape passage; it was unfinished and barely lit, and seemed forgotten, although here and there it widened or branched off into subsidiary passages, presumably to connect with other parts of the base. She wondered where it would lead them.  
  
Chichi passed the time keeping her anger feeding her energy, and thinking of her strategy. Her greatest weakness as a fighter-- other than the complete lack of training herself in recent years-- was her frailty. She wasn't a big damage soak like those alien lugs always hanging around her place; she would have to rely on speed to dodge rather than to block. Especially when her opponent was liable to throw poison darts at any point. But she still felt like she'd been called back to the past; her mind was recalled to the 23rd Budokai, and she could feel the old training like a pattern newly reimposed over her brain. She would fall into those rhythms, although her muscles would complain later. Whatever. She was used to complaining. After all, she was a mother.  
  
But now, what was important was catching up to her prey before he completed the transfer to Vegeta's body. That was a battle she couldn't win today; there was no time to come up with the sort of plan she'd need. Funny how the very thing she'd set out to do, and done, to best Vegeta in combat, was now what every fiber in her body warned against. Sneaking around with potions was one thing; but sometimes, the best strategy was to force a direct combat. It had worked for her on Goku, hadn't it? Buoyed by the memory, Chichi smiled, then gritted her teeth, yelled, and launched a ferocious flying kick at the back of the assassin's knee. They would fight here. It would have to be enough.  
  
Tao Pai Pai stumbled before he caught his balance, but it was enough to jar Vegeta's body from his grasp; the heavy form rolled over and over across the floor, finally banging to a rest against a red door. Chichi winced-- a limp body could dislocate a shoulder like that. Not to be so easily discouraged, however, Tao Pai Pai diverolled out of her range towards Vegeta, and scooped him up and through the door in one fluid moment. Bright light spilled into the tunnel, confounding her vision; she raced forward and through the door, to emerge into a deserted barracks. Bunk beds lined the walls in symmetrical rows, sheets precicely tucked. The place smelled like bleach. She couldn't see her opponent. But something out of the corner of her eye--  
  
Chichi pulled her head to one side, barely avoiding the axe kick that descended brutally on her shoulder, nearly pulling it from the socket. She fell and rolled away blindly, ducking behind a bed. There was Tao Pai Pai, carressing the side of Vegeta's face, rapt as a lover. Vegeta's eyes were rolling in time to Tao Pai Pai's. They flickered--  
  
Chichi attacked again, desperately, trying to break the assassin's concentration. If she could prevent him from taking the new body, perhaps Vegeta would now wake on his own, even be persuaded to act as her ally-- though such responses were not to be taken for granted from the Saiyajin prince. But not to come to his aid meant death to her, as well, so there was no choice. Hands rigid as knives, her whirlwind attack battered and bludgeoned at his defenses-- here a thrust at his kidney, blocked with one hand, in combination with a back kick to the knee again, a hit, weakening it further; dodge down and a sweep which he simply stepped over, concentrating still on the victim-- Chichi was infuriated. He was putting up a competent defense, one-handed without even breaking his concentration? She was less than a distraction to him?  
  
But he didn't have the resources to attack at the same time. She couldn't give him that chance. Perhaps if she continued, she would wear him down? The sides of her hands ached, and her forearms where she'd been blocked were bruising; and that smell of bleach--  
  
Never letting up her attack, Chichi turned her head, quickly scouting out the location of the stench. If attacking him wouldn't break his concentration-- she pulled down, aiming a last strike at his neck for good measure, then snapped into a backflip, landing in a crouch beside the stinking bucket half-full of cold, bleachy water. Kicking it up into her hand quickly, as Tao Pai Pai cracked an eye to see what she was up to, she hurled it with all her might across the room, picking up the mop to brandish it for good measure.  
  
The shock of the cold water seemed to break Tao Pai Pai's trance. His arm went limp, and Vegeta's form fell still once again. Dripping, half-crouching, his face was obscured to her in three-quarter view. Slowly, his queue, sodden as a rat's tail, dripped water onto the floor. The smell was acrid bleach and half-moldy mop. The skin on Tao Pai Pai's neck was reddening-- whether in anger or because the solution was stronger than she'd though, she didn't know.  
  
Tao Pai Pai stood up, letting Vegeta drop unceremoniously to the ground.  
  
"Congratulations, little fly," he said, voice spitting bile: "You have my full attention. For now."  
  
As he fell seamlessly into an attacking stance, Chichi felt her stomach quaver.   
  
* * *  
  
"Heave!" ordered General Gao for the last time; and finally the iron bar shattered, the door to the control room burst open with a bang, and he ran into the room, surveying it with horror. Two of his lieutenants lay dead. The thick cage was opened, and the alien prisoner was gone. As for Mrs. Son's cage-- it lay shattered on the ground, utterly demolished, like the victim of about a cubic ton of TNT.  
  
"Who could do this?" he muttered aloud. Certainly not Mrs. Son, or she'd have done it long ago...   
  
It was then he noticed that his precious salvage from the Cell Games arena, that mangled yet oh so informative Red Ribbon relic, his microchip was missing. His jaw twitched.  
  
"Sir!" barked a lieutenant.  
  
"Get these bodies out of here," he ordered, then testily, "what?"  
  
"Sir, while we were gone-- the targets have left location Blue. All of them."  
  
General Gao found himself suddenly beside the monitor, staring at it in consternation. It was blank. His eye twitched. He took a deep breath.  
  
"Order the troops to pull back to the base, right away."  
  
"Sir!"  
  
"Ryu, locate them on the radar. Do whatever it takes."  
  
"Sir!"  
  
"Deploy the troops we have remaining into defensive position Omega."  
  
"Sir!"  
  
The General's nostrils twitched. "Damn it... if only we hadn't lost so many choppers in the assault on their floating citadel... I should have realized location Blue was their true base of operations from the start. Damn it!"  
  
"Sir," the officer Ryu said, turning, "I've got them on radar. You're not going to like it--"  
  
"Where are they?"  
  
"Fifteen miles off of our position and closing, sir. I don't know how they got here so fast... wh... sir, our radar's gone dead!"  
  
"What?" Gao turned angrily to survey the chaos in his command room. Was this a diversion they had planned? Was there treachery in his own base? He could feel the skin on the back of his neck crawling. How many Namekian imposters could there be in the world? Was it all too late? "How long until our troops can be recalled back to base?"  
  
"At least an hour, sir."  
  
"No..." He had to pull himself together. He was a military man, a strategist. How could he be so outmaneuvered, by a bunch of disorganized amateurs that had only even known they had an enemy for twenty-four hours? "The hostages..." he murmured.  
  
"Sir," Ryu turned, "If I may be frank, we don't have any hostages any more."  
  
"They don't have to know that," The General said, snapping his fingers. "Can we loop the film we have of the prisoners? Deng, get on it."  
  
"Sir!"  
  
General Gao surveyed his blind monitors. Soon, the enemy would come into range of his home sensor arrays. And he'd have them then. He'd have them yet. If it was the assassin who had taken the other hostages, then they were both already dead. The alien invaders would never know they hadn't been taken. He would play his cards until there were none left, until he had spat out his own heart and offered it to them poisoned to crush them in the hour of his victory. If that was what it took.  
  
The general's lip twitched. Twice.  
  
* * *  
  
"Piccolo," Gohan shouted against the current of air rushing by him. "Piccolo-sensei! Why did you blow up that tower?"  
  
Piccolo slowly reached a hand back, indicating his ear. "Radar," he said.  
  
"Ohhhh..."  
  
* * *   
  
The deserted barracks were swiftly developing the look of a genuine war zone.  
  
Chichi ducked low under a barrage of poison darts, hearing their soft thuds into the wooden frame of the bed behind her, followed by the sizzle of their acid burning into the wood-- but she was already transferring momentum into a roll, narrowly avoiding the stomp of Tao Pai Pai's boot, which struck the floor inches from her head, then the claw of his hand, which grasped the air where her arm had been as she rolled under the bunk, then out from under it as it was demolished above her with his kick; he was descending at her again, feet first, eyes wild and clothes flying. Gathering herself into a crouch, she leapt-- but her ankle, weakened from a well-placed low kick she hadn't seen, gave way and her leap went foul, and he landed several blows to her ribcage as she protected her face before she could escape, lashing out with an elbow that he was forced to stop attacking to block, then a drop and another roll as she saw with dread the flash of the knife he was pulling from his belt.  
  
She couldn't go on much longer like this. Her lack of training, her softness and her exhaustion were getting to her. Long ago she'd lost the mop to his attacks; it lay in pieces around the ground, pieces he never gave her the maneuverability to reach. And the splinters of wood from the bunks were ready weapons to her hands, a thousand unpoisoned darts to hurl with deadly accuracy. Her legs, her body was filled with tiny splinters that shoved their way further in every time she had to roll to dodge one of his attacks. He hadn't hurt her badly yet, not as badly as when he'd kicked her in the face in her cage, but he was wearing her down; she couldn't even find the strength to be angry anymore, much less attack. His knee, she had weakened it-- for all the good it did her. He could still kick with it, and it wasn't hurting his landings, unlike her ankle.   
  
Tao Pai Pai flicked the knife into his right hand, spinning towards her, blade flashing back and forth like a bright, deadly hummingbird. She scrambled back, disorganized-- was that splinter too close to her lung? Would it pierce it if she rolled again? It was too painful for her to tell. She couldn't risk another roll. He landed close to her-- and then, unbelievably, slipped in the water and fell!  
  
It was an incredible stroke of luck. As if in slow motion, his chin struck the ground. Now was her chance to attack him! She ran forward--  
  
--and straight past him, jumping over the stealthy attack from his knife that flashed out, grabbing up Vegeta and dragging him through the door into the dark passage again, down a side tunnel, scurrying as fast as she could. Almost to the next door--  
  
The energy blast took her in the side, glancing along her ribcage, shredding her clothing and singing the threads. It hurt. It hurt unbelievably, worse than when she'd held Goku's power, an explosion in her side. She fell, crying out, and the splinter skewered itself further into her back, thankfully hitting a rib and grating on it. She grabbed the handle of the next door, wrenching it open-- another barracks, another eternal arena-- hearing his footfalls pelt behind her, she pulled herself through the opening, to hear a startled cry.  
  
"Ma'am! Ma'am, are you all right?"   
  
Spots were still dancing before her eyes from the pain; the sudden changes between light and dark didn't help matters. Strong, young hands were pulling her and Vegeta forward; soldiers' hands, like her son's, their strong, young voices calling in dismay. Then the tone changed, to menacing fear:  
  
"You-- halt! What a-- aeurggghhh!"  
  
Chichi regained vision just in time to see the two young men who had helped her struck by a second energy blast, ricocheting from the darkened room to strike them back in a sizzling pile of scorched flesh. They had bought her the time to recover, though, and she was staggering to her feet when her attacker rushed into the room, face purple with rage and embarrassment over his slip-up. She knew she couldn't run from him now. She had no ranged attacks. She would have to keep the battle close to him now for as long as she could, to keep him from launching a ki attack, no matter what damage she incurred. And he still had a knife. The easy part of the battle was over.  
  
* * *   
  
"This way! March! March!"  
  
Like a treacherous undertow, or perhaps more like a herd of lemmings, a battalion of infantry suddenly burst from one of the barracks room at double-time, plowing over the solitary figure of Bulma Briefs, one disoriented cat in tow, who had been trying to make her way in the other direction, away from the MP officers and towards more deserted realms. Now she was swimming through hordes of tall, buff men-- a dream on almost any other men, although these were regrettably now rather too young for her-- and pump as her legs might, she was still going backwards. And slowly foundering down.  
  
Bulma breathed heavily, suddenly dizzy and frantic-- was she going to be trampled in a crowd? Her, the greatest genius of her generation? Her, the beautiful blue-haired heiress of a multinational corporation? Stomped on by grunts?  
  
As she began to topple backwards, a rough hand grabbed her by the uniform and pulled her up. Her head reeled.  
  
"Soldier, the enemy's that way," said a grizzled sergeant. Bulma let her eyes run up and down his form. Fifty, chronic bad temper, one-track mind-- no, not a candidate for a Little Lost Lady act. Better play along like a good soldier.  
  
  
  
"Sir, yes sir," she said, managing a frazzled salute, and came about, letting the flow of the other soldiers carry her forward at an quick half-jog.  
  
After a few minutes of this, the drill sergeant out of the way, she muttered, "Dear god, what am I doing?" Any further and she'd find herself in the middle of a battle-- always the last place for beautiful geniuses. But if the sergeant caught her deserting, there was no telling.  
  
"Hey!" she tapped the shoulder of the young man jogging next to her. He glanced over, annoyed, then turned to face forward again, his face a picture of determined dutifulness.   
  
Bulma tried again, this time her neighbor to the left. "Hey, you! What's going on out there?"  
  
This youth seemed more tractable. "Enemy attack. Sarge said some sort of super-soldiers."  
  
"And us?"  
  
"Front-line assault troop! What are you, a dope?"  
  
Great. Front line assault troop against the Z warriors. In a low-visibility mass combat. Suddenly the Sergeant seemed a whole lot friendlier.   
  
Bulma edged her way to the side of the jogging mass. They were passing through areas of the base she didn't know from her memory of the map she'd downloaded.   
  
"Puar," she hissed. "We have got to get out of this. Can you transform?"  
  
  
  
"Into what?" came the response.  
  
They rounded a corner. She could hear more footfalls ahead-- soon, they were really going to be swimming in soldiers. The growing, rhythmic tide of sound seemed like an extension of the pounding of her heart. What with hearts, tides, and impending death, Bulma was finding it a little difficult to think critically.  
  
"I don't know!" she said, speaking quickly. "Do I have to do *all* the thinking around here?"  
  
"Okay, Okay!"  
  
There was a silence from the sling for a few seconds, during which Bulma heard the footsteps ahead grow louder, like a rising doom. Then, suddenly, she was holding a walkie-talkie. With a bandage on its antenna.  
  
She stopped, eyeing the item in shock. What in the...  
  
"Private Briefs," shrilled the walkie-talkie, in Puar's voice. "Report back to barracks for reassignment. Over. Kkhhh!" The think moved as it talked, like a mouth. Bulma stifled a horrified snicker.  
  
The Sergeant had come level with her. "Well, what are you waiting for, Private Briefs?" he ordered. "Step to!"  
  
"Private Briefs," snickered someone in the company.  
  
"Soldiers, is there something amusing?" said the sergeant, wheeling.   
  
As Bulma fled down the hallway back towards the barracks, she could hear the chorus of response:  
  
"Sir, no sir!"  
  
* * *  
  
Gohan shivered. Hovering high, high above the world, above the mountain from which Piccolo said he could hear radar pings emanating, the air was thin enough that even warmed by his own ki he couldn't get enough oxygen to keep his cells warm and his head clear at the same time.  
  
Kuririn and Yamucha, 18 predictably having decided not to participate in the late night raid, had seen no point in attacking an army's rear when that rear was protected by a great big stone mountain; so they had gone to watch the others' rear instead. Tenshinhan and Chaotzu, under cover of the forest, watched their right flank. The two fighters hovering like unearthly hawks knew that they would have been detected, if not now, then soon; but by staying so high, they might draw off any aircraft fighters from the ground troops, taking care of them first. At least, that's what Piccolo had said.  
  
  
  
Gohan glanced over at his teacher, unwilling to expend his precious breath on a question-- he had the feeling that Piccolo would know what he wanted to ask, anyway. The Namek seemed calm, staring down into the void with keener eyes than a Saiyan's, truly a great predator with his cape blowing in the cold, steady winds that make up the stratosphere.  
  
Gohan was correct. Without the need to ask, Piccolo answered his question. "Not many," he said. "Tanks in partial cover; ground units, which do not concern us; the helicopters cannot come so high-- ah, you hear that?"  
  
Teeth chattering, Gohan turned a head. Where Piccolo found the breath to speak so calmly was beyond him. A high crackling noise-- aircraft?  
  
  
  
Piccolo was already nodding assent. The noise was almost imperceptable now, but growing-- climbing at them from below and to the east. They waited, Gohan's body jittering from cold and holding his position; then Piccolo said, Gohan wasn't sure whether it was aloud or somehow in his head:  
  
"Dive."  
  
The head tucks down into the shoulders, the body springing as if to leap, the rotation of the legs pulling the body into a quick spin-- stabilize with a burst of energy, make the body slender like an arrow, and downward you dive, downward and to the east. The wind bitter against the face, the exhilaration of speed, racing towards an enemy invisible in the clouds, your hands grasping air that has become solid and tangible with the wind of your passing-- some ethereal fiber binding you to the sky, pushing at you-- this is aerial combat. His power surged up in the back of Gohan's mind, battering at it like a caged dog, excited at the battle it now knew was coming, begging to rush free, transform him, make him the furious god he knew he could become. Gohan swallowed it back, hushing the voices, even as the night wind battered at his arms in the dive. Piccolo was beside him. He knew if he were to transform now, he would lose that control. He would save it for later.  
  
Three seconds of burning dive, no more, and they rushed past a flight of three airplanes, zipping through the belated frenzy of bullets that pumped up toward them when the pilots, in surprise, burst through the clouds to the uncanny sight of human figures falling from the sky. A quick shift of position in the air, as the fighter pilots broke off, no time for a finishing attack-- both fighters chose the same one, a quick barrage of their own, balls of lightning that spin from the fingers like demonic twine. The shower of ki burst into the fusilage of one airplane, the wing of another, and then the sky was lit up with noise and fire, blocking the view.  
  
Without waiting for the result, as one, the fighters turned, continuing to dive. Any airplane that survived that would have to catch them first.   
  
They broke through a layer of cloud, and suddenly Gohan could see what Piccolo's sharper eyes had picked up. To the right, in the forest, there were explosions and shouting-- Tenshinhan and Chaotzu, discovered. Speeding down on the position-- there truly were not very many fighters defending the base! No more airplanes, only a few helicoopters, ground troops standing firmly at the entrance, tanks--  
  
"Kienzan!" Gohan pulled energy from his body around the thought of a throwing star, fashioned it sharp and thin in his head, hurled. Two tanks fell, bisected neatly.  
  
He could feel the amused disgruntlement of Piccolo. Piccolo always preferred to see him use his own attacks.  
  
The battle noises coming from Tenshinhan's position sounded truly horrific. Men were screaming and wailing as if possessed. Two suns appeared briefly low in the sky, then vanished as swiftly. Panic. Mayhem.  
  
They were skirting the ground now. Gohan lifted his collarbone slightly, just enough to change the flow of the air around his body, skimming within six inches of the ground and following its line-- a very fancy maneuvre. Again, Piccolo's amusement. Forward, then, the assault-- they were shooting at him, now, the ground troops, but the bullets fled from the merest hint of his ken-ki, his warrior's aura, scattering into the dust. The faces of his enemy were afraid, and he was rushing up to meet them--  
  
"My little Gohan."  
  
His head struck up in wonderment, the force of the momentum carrying him up to hover in the night sky. His mother's voice?  
  
"always so good about doing... chores..."  
  
Chichi's voice over the megaphone continued, amplified fifty times, broadcast over the battle zone. Piccolo, looking slightly annoyed, left off attacking a regiment of soldiers to listen with the rest. Out of range, in the forest to the right of them, the battle waged on.  
  
Then, like a ray of hope, from behind the battalion of soldiers, a thin beam of light projected onto the darkening clouds, sending an image up onto them, wavering in its foggy medium. Just a projector, but the image--  
  
It was Chichi, crouched in a cage that had fallen onto its side, looking up. Her face was disheveled and gaunt, eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Her clothes were rumpled, and she was holding her side as if from a pain she'd long forgotten about. She looked completely furious; but also, somehow, totally lost and forlorn-- an animal that knows it is already dead. The image moved; Chichi turned, looking nervously at an off-camera part of the room; in another corner, what could only be Vegeta's hair jutted between the thick bars of an iron cage. Chichi turned back, then suddenly glanced up at the camera directly-- a gaze full of hope, and of outrage.  
  
"Mother--" Gohan murmured.  
  
Piccolo had come up to him, silently. "A trap," he said. "They buy time. Listen."  
  
Indeed, from the direction of home there was another eerie whistle, and a great rumbling-- aircraft. Much more. And soldiers as well.  
  
A man's voice came over the megaphone then. "We have her, Namek," it said. Piccolo raised an eyebrow in surprise. The husky voice continued: "We have them both. Surrender-- or they die.  
  
"The woman first."  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
Bulma flicked the panel open, dropping the screwdriver into her left hand. The dorms were weirdly quiet, disorientingly so; she had no idea how to find her way back to the door. Or even if she wanted to do so-- there were beginning to be muffled explosions from the outside of the mountain. She thanked her lucky stars she had managed to get away from the soldiers heading out! Or, well-- charitably, Bulma reflected, who she really ought to thank was Puar.   
  
No matter-- let them even the scales when Bulma herself found them a safe hole to hide in somewhere in the compound.  
  
Puar had gone into her human form again, slouching in her uniform against the cold cinder-block wall, looking rather haggard and exhausted. The cut in her leg was bleeding again, but not badly.  
  
There was a strange, quasi-rhythmic thumping pattern coming from somewhere further up the hall. Every now and again, a man or woman's voice cried out. Bulma had been initially concerned, but then as the position of the noise didn't seem to change, she'd chalked it up to battle hormones. Get a lot of athletic twenty-year olds cooped up together in wartime, and-- well.  
  
She finished hooking up the wires, tapping into them one by one to figure out what circuits they were connected to. Lights-- wall sockets-then the data ports: comm system-- interior security monitors-- exterior monitors-- databases. Here.  
  
"Wait a second," muttered Bulma. Something was funny-- she moved the connector back two circuits. The rhythm of one of the currents was too regular, too repetitious. What sort of effect would it produce?  
  
Bulma smiled, slyly. "Someone has looped a security camera," she said to Puar. The cat/woman didn't respond. Not to be discouraged, Bulma turned back to the circuit box.  
  
"Yes, they're feeding looped information-heh, but they aren't sending it to the database files; for some reason they're sending it out to the external monitor system!" She pulled a few wires. "The comm system's going out to that port too-there's a shunt somewhere down the line. I bet it's some sort of speaker, or a projection system..." Bulma scratched her head. "Now why would the army do that?"  
  
"I don't know," said Puar. "Please, let's just get out of here!"  
  
Bulma sniffed. "Suit yourself," she said. "Just let me get this downloaded-I wonder if I could get the internal sensor feed to shunt into my pad, too?"  
  
"Bulma! For crying out loud!" Puar looked nervously to her left and right. Outside, there was an eerie pause in the explosions.  
  
"It won't take long," Bulma busied herself about the circuits: a disconnect here, a clamp there, and a quick analysis of the format of the signal-  
  
The electronic pad fell from Bulma's limp hand, broadcasting its fuzzy picture at the ceiling. Bulma stood staring straight ahead, like a woman who has seen a ghost.  
  
Puar leaned forward, glancing anxiously at Bulma's blank stare, then down at the fuzzy image that now stared up at the ceiling, flickering. When her eyes registered it, she took in her breath with a little gasp.  
  
"Chichi!" she whispered.  
  
"Vegeta," whispered Bulma.  
  
(very big To Be Continued!) 


	18. The Greatest Assassin

Chapter 18: The Breaking of the Fortress  
  
In an empty barracks in an army base under seige, two figures moved beside one another, quickly and passionately, striking foot and fist, across the room and around it, leaving destruction in their wake. Bedding and splintered bunks littered the floor, as they did the floor of the previous rooms this violent dance had moved from. The woman's hair, disheveled and slept-on, flashed back and forth like great black snakes, trying to escape its ribbon. Her hands flashed as quickly, almost too fast for a human to move. The man-- he was too fast for a human to move, faster than her, his body barely moving as he blocked her attacks, landing his own. He was winning. Chichi's body, a great burn running down the side of her ribcage, was battered and bruised; the side of her face a ruinous, angry splotch; blood ran unnoticed from her lip. Her left arm was sluggish-- but still remarkably mobile, considering the knife slash that had left the forearm bone bare. Her sleeve was soaked black with the bleeding. Her energy was almost spent; still she forced her body to move at its full speed, feeding off of her desperation instead of her ki. Her only options were to fight or to perish.   
  
Nonetheless, she was laughing, laughing in exultation. In that left hand was a rather small, rather nasty looking knife. The sort of knife an assassin would carry. And Tao Pai Pai was fuming.  
  
He ducked low, evading the sharp knife thrust, taking the opportunity to try a sweep, and she jumped over him nimbly, her swollen ankle turning away his attempt to grab it; she stomped on his back, knocking him further, then landing nimbly. The ankle didn't seem to be bothering her anymore; and had she somehow gotten faster as she had grown tireder? Such thoughts bothered him. He knew he was stronger, more experienced; she couldn't even throw a simple dodon-pa attack. He turned, preparing his energy, but was already rushing in, knife threatening his hand, and he was forced to abort for the thousandth time. Yes, she had strategy, this woman; it had been a clever maneuvre that forced him to use a two-handed block, the sheer force of her left arm levering the knife out of his hand by the blade. She knew how to make sacrifices to gain the advantage. So did he.  
  
He did not dodge the knife; he had the energy ready to hand, although not ready to throw at her. Instead he channeled it into the blade, giving it a final regretful glance.   
  
Chichi yelped as the knife suddenly grew molten hot, and let go; it clattered to the floor, steel blackening in the new tempering, then shattered, too brittle from the heat. She glared at Tao Pai Pai. That advantage had been hard bought; soon she wouldn't be able to use the left arm at all, and the blood leaving her body was taking her strength with it. Her whole body felt raw, like a dish that had been scraped clean with steel wool.   
  
Tao Pai Pai attacked. "We are alike, you and I," he said, smiling nonchalantly. "Cunning. Devious. We know how to get the job done, whatever it takes, you and I. In the time I have watched you, I have thought to myself-- were she not so weak, this is a woman to my liking."  
  
Chichi winced under a painful hit to her gut, responding with a lucky shot to his knee. "Go to hell," she said. "I am nothing like you."  
  
"Oh?" Tao laughed, nodding over his shoulder. "Tell that to him!"  
  
Ten minutes had long since passed, but Vegeta still lay prone as he had since Tao stopped exerting his mind control over him. Perhaps the formula was well enough designed that it knew to wait for some cue from its creator. Chichi risked a glance at him, heart sinking.   
  
"It was that ruthlessness that I saw in you," Tao continued, all the while attacking: "the hardness of your heart-- that led me to believe I could use you. As my instrument. My dear Chichi, I did not even have to prod you in the right direction! Give you time and you will be the undoing of all your friends-- just as you weakened your son!"  
  
Chichi breathed heavily. She could not catch her breath. The attacks, the danger-- she could not think clearly enough to respond. Was what he was saying true? Was all of this her fault? She seemed to remember it being her fault-- but she had no time to consider it. Should she let him kill her, stop defending herself? Could it be that this was what she deserved?  
  
"Neaaaaaauughhh!" She screamed, attacking him the more ferociously. A tiger-hand attack raked his face, and the whirling elbow of her left arm took him in the windpipe, staggering him even as exquisite pain blossomed down the bone, throbbing where it was exposed to air. She couldn't stand to see Vegeta's face, accusing her. Anything to get away from it, to stop him from playing with her mind. Using yet more reserves she did not have, she battered at his defenses, forcing him back, back towards the door. That was his strategy, she knew, and it infuriated her: make her mad, make her spend her energy, and he would take her by stamina. But for now, she could force him. Push him back. Into the hallway.  
  
It was deserted there, too; all the troops had gone to fight some battle outside. Gohan, maybe? Had he found her at last?   
  
The tide of battle turned her around, giving her a glance down a side hall. No- not deserted. There were two soldiers there, women-- deserters? Very well-- she took a blow to the head, but shook it off. She'd hope they didn't recognize her for the prisoner.  
  
"Help me!" she called. "He's trying to kill me!"  
  
She was totally unprepared for the response she got.  
  
"Chichi!"   
  
The voice behind the stunned exclamation was unmistakeably familiar. Chichi paused momentarily in her assault on the assassin, and could not resist turning to see-- could it be?  
  
"Bulma! ? ?"   
  
"Haa!" With a guttural yell that seemed to rip his throat, Tao Pai Pai sent an energy blast over her shoulder, sending the two blue-haired women scattering. One of them was Bulma; the other could almost have been her twin, but she staggered as she dove away from the blast, letting it catch her in the unbandaged leg. Chichi didn't recognize her.  
  
"Get away! Get help!" Chichi shrieked, turning back towards Tao Pai Pai. Attack her friends, would he? She turned just in time to see his foot coming towards her face for the second time that day.  
  
* * *  
  
"Hold! Hold!" Gohan shouted frantically towards Tenshinhan, hoping they would hear him. "They'll kill my mother!"  
  
"There is nothing to stop them from killing her anyway," Piccolo said, his voice curt; but there was a harsh, raw emotion behind it. "We can bring her back. She has never died yet."  
  
Gohan's mind wavered; his sensei was right. Piccolo-san was always right about such things. But-- "No!" his voice cried out, strangled. Several of the soldiers looked up at him; he noticed them in some corner of his mind. He felt... lost, not understanding why he could not bring himself to listen to reason. Somehow he could not bear to think--  
  
Then it all came clear. Piccolo was turning, ignoring his request for his own best interests; a fighter of his experience could understand the difficult emotions of a battlefield and distance them from a winning strategy. That was the sort of fighter Gohan knew he had never been, could never be. But wasn't this his battle, after all?   
  
"Piccolo, please," Gohan said, his voice strained. Piccolo turned, the patient tolerance of a teacher dealing with a recalcitrant but beloved student scrawled across his face for all the world to see. How to make him understand?   
  
"I... I couldn't bear it." Gohan closed his eyes. He would not let the tears come. "I know it's a trap. I know she may already be dead. But if I... if they kill her... it would be on my hands. Just like-- just like back then--"  
  
He opened his eyes. "I could not bear it, Piccolo," he said. "Please. Not now. Not both of them."  
  
Piccolo hovered there, a wind playing at the edges of his cape. Gohan could watch the emotions warring across his face. Above them, like a message from heaven, the video feed played on; Chichi hung above them literally as her life hung in their hands. The immutable green figure was still, his body unreadable; only his eyes betrayed any inner conflict. Gohan held his breath; it came down to this moment. His future, the health of his spirit; wasn't Piccolo also his friend?  
  
Then, as if someone inside of him had surrendered, Piccolo's face came together, and he turned away, letting his arms fall to his sides.   
  
"Tenshinhan!" called the Namek, his great bass voice rebounding across the field. "Hold and wait!"  
  
In the forest, the sounds of battle ceased; bringing to the fore the rumbling whine of the approaching aircraft.  
  
Gohan felt a gratitude inexpressible in words towards his teacher. To have made the wrong strategic decision-- and he knew it was the wrong decision-- simply because his friend asked it of him; this was probably one of the hardest things he could ever have asked of a man such as Piccolo. Already it seemed to him that his teacher seemed haggard, struggling under the weight of the consequence of his decision even as he had made it.   
  
"Thank you," Gohan breathed.  
  
Piccolo did not turn. "Thank me later," he said. His nose twitched. "Gas. A tranquilizer."  
  
Gohan looked up; the airplanes had come into range. Behind them trailed a rain of thick, smoky dust.  
  
* * *  
  
Chichi fell, slipping for a second into a strange unconscious dream that evaporated beyond memory as her head struck the floor painfully, to be followed by a brutal rain blows to her now unprotected stomach and torso. Clearly she was being beaten to death; but why was she so exhausted in heart and soul? Where--  
  
The world slipped gradually into a foggy sort of focus. The man was Tao Pai Pai. He was going to kill her. Down the hall, the strange woman was keening piteously, and... shrinking? Bulma was shooting at them with a rifle, but somehow the bullets pinged from Tao's body. Was he partially metal, or just good with ki?   
  
She pulled her legs in to protect her stomach, her arms over her head. Had to protect herself. Had to get up. Had to get up somehow. She almost laughed. With what strength? What had she using to fight with before, oxygen? No matter. Just get up. Get up, Chichi, get up!  
  
Startlingly, she did.  
  
Tao Pai Pai paused in his barrage of blows, then started again, aiming a shot at her head.  
  
She blocked it with her left hand.   
  
She knew she shouldn't have been able to do that; her left arm was too badly injured to hold against such a furious blow. But somewhere along the line she seemed to have lost all connection between her mind and her body. She couldn't even feel her limbs, and her heart sounded heavy and slow. Her mind was floating in a strange land; somewhere else, her body fought on, like a film she was watching.  
  
Chichi watched the woman who was herself begin to move more swiftly. There, she knew that block; that was a Turtle Style kata-- yes, there was the dip and the two-stage attack. Surprisingly effective; it had scored a hit on him. She hadn't used that attack in years, hadn't realized she still remembered it. But what was this attack, though, that she was doing now? She thought she recognized it-- yes, from watching Gohan practice with Piccolo. It was one of her son's attacks. She remembered liking it; she must have somehow memorized it without noticing. A good attack, using his smaller size to advantage against a strong opponent; yes, Tao Pai Pai's arm was weakened now. Why wasn't her body doing anything about it? It was still attacking; beating down upon him, and blocking him much faster than she could remember moving since she had been only in her late teens. Faster even than that. As fast as she had ever seen a human move. All the fights she'd seen, all the training she'd had to follow them-- somehow they had broken past her consciousness straight into her body, making her as strong as she had ever been in her life. But it was not attacking intelligently; the arm was weak. She should attack him there, disable it completely. A throw she'd seen Goku use many times; that would do the trick. Why wasn't her body trying it? She had to get back! Back into control!  
  
Like diving into a cold pool, Chichi suddenly broke through into full consciousness. Her senses came back to her in a burst of pain; ringing in her ears, she could hear Bulma cursing her gun for being out of bullets; she could smell the sharp warmth of Tao Pai Pai's rancid breath. Her heart was fluttering dangerously fast, and her neck was hot. She staggered under the assault of her senses, and for a moment her motion faltered. Her arm felt like molten lead. She couldn't move them. She was sinking down into pain and defeat... no! She had to keep control. She had Tao Pai Pai off balance, she couldn't let up now. Break the enslavement of the body to the rules of logic and physics; direct it to do what she wanted of it. Consequences later. Now!  
  
Summoning all her anger, distancing herself from the screaming pain of every bruise in her body, she directed her muscles to try Goku's attack-- they complied. When she didn't think too hard about it, the movements flowed from her memory like water. There was a crack as Tao's shoulder came from his socket, and he howled. Now another kata-- make him block awkwardly with his left leg, and the right knee she'd been attacking since the battle started would be strained--  
  
Tao Pai Pai wobbled in the extended block, his knee shaking. Chichi wheeled, forcing him to lean further-- and the assassin fell. Without waiting to think about the wisdom of her actions, she dove in and tackled him, grappling his flailing arm around. She kicked viciously at the knee, knocking his kneecap out of place, then reached into his coat. Her hand scrabbled blindly as he thrashed under her-- there! One more dart. She knew him, it was true-- there was a grain of truth to what he'd said about their similarities. He'd saved one more weapon. One more poison dart.  
  
She whipped it forth, holding it at his neck. The point jabbed into his skin, denting it without actually piercing it. Acid bubbled from the tip, as if lusting after him. Sweat broke out on the assassin's forehead. Tao Pai Pai was suddenly very, very still.  
  
* * *  
  
Outside of the fortress, the hundreds of troops commanded by General Gao had pulled masks over their faces, shielding them from the effects of the gas, and pulled into positions surrounding the effectively surrendered warriors. Gohan stood in a daze, his aura still protecting him from their approach; Chaotzu, already downed, had been carried over to them, accompanied by an infuriated Tenshinhan, hands tied behind his back. The gently falling anesthetic dust blanketed all the noise of the clearing, and its dizzying effect on his head furthered the effect, until it felt like he was smothering in a very fluffy couch. Only Piccolo still stood straight; but his head was bowed, whether from the gas or from defeat, it was impossible to tell.  
  
Gohan knew he would not hold out much longer. Soon, his mind would close up entirely. There was no sign of Kuririn or Yamucha; further to the rear, they must have been hit by the drug already. Soon he would be a prisoner. But at least he would not have caused the death of his mother as he had his father. At least he could die with his conscience that clear. He only wished-- he wasn't so helpless. It was humiliating, to stand here powerless, to be drugged, not even killed in battle. It was very... human.  
  
Gohan forced his head upright. If he had to fall this way, at least he would hold out as long as he could. Perhaps transformed he would stand longer, and have that much to say to his father when he faced his humiliation upon meeting him in heaven. He gathered his energy to himself; the transformation was almost easy, now, after living in its skin for months. Painful, yes, but exhilarating; and if he did not do it in anger, he could control it. He forced his energy up past what his human side could bear, forcing his body's energy channels to expand, forcing his body to change-- he flickered gold, suddenly, and stood straighter, his head clearing. The soldiers drew back, forced by his aura, but also shocked at what they watched. Beside him, Piccolo raised his head, and turned to look at his student; all regret had been replaced with pride. Together, they would fall; but they would stand together for as long as it took.  
  
* * *  
  
Bulma threw the empty gun down, kicking it away with a curse. Damn it, why must they always face opponents who couldn't be defeated by technology? It wasn't fair! And Puar, lying there keening in agony-- what was she going to tell Yamucha? Why had she given those damned senzu beans away?   
  
As Bulma was about to reflect that, seeing that Vegeta had somehow been captured, maybe she didn't need to make any kinds of apology to Yamucha after all, when Chichi stood up, miraculously, and suddenly began to move.   
  
Her jaw dropped. Chichi? As much of a fighter as all that? She hadn't seen much of the battle, but from what she'd just witnessed, her friend had been losing. Badly. On the floor and about to be beaten to death, in point of fact. But now-- Bulma cocked her head. She'd seen enough tournaments to know a thing or two. Wasn't that one of Gohan's moves? Then a throw, and ah- whoops, wobbling there--  
  
And just like that, he was down.  
  
Bulma rushed forward, leaving Puar half-transformed in the hallway. Chichi had him by the neck.  
  
"Bring a rope," she gasped, spitting blood from her mouth. "Tie him up. It's--"  
  
"I know who he is," said Bulma, crossing her arms. Between saving the enemy soldiers, and Puar falling, and Yamucha completely failing her, not to mention Vegeta's illness, she had had about enough of mysteries. Here was an enemy she knew. Tao Pai Pai. Here was someone who had definitely caused more than his share of trouble for them already.  
  
Bulma pulled the screwdriver from her purse. Chichi was looking down, concentrating on maintaining her hold on Tao. She glanced at the metal shaft once-- and then drove it home, deep, deep into Tao Pai Pai's chest.  
  
Chichi had recoiled in horror. Shaking, wiping her hands nervously on her shirt, Bulma couldn't blame her. She had just killed a man-- an evil man-- but killed him in cold blood.   
  
"How's that for being defeated by technology?" said Bulma.  
  
Her opponent gone, Chichi seemed suddenly too fatigued to make any protest, or even to care. She collapsed heavily against the lintel of the door to the barracks, breathing weakly. Her arm was a mess of blood and tissue, cradled to her body. She seemed dazed, as if she could barely even keep the one usable eye she still had open. But Bulma felt no pity. Gazing past the wreck, she could see into the chaos of the next room-- and the dark-haired figure slumped there on the floor. Vegeta, at long last-- and perhaps too late.   
  
Bulma glanced at the both of the piteous figures, thinking back over the events of the past three hours. Chichi had probably saved at least the three of their lives. With three quick strides, Bulma came forward to stand before her-- and then slapped her in the face, hard.  
  
"Don't you ever pull a stunt like this again! What were you thinking! You idiot, what were you thinking!"  
  
Chichi, her hand grasping her cheek, found her voice at last. "I... I'm sorry. Bulma, I'm so, so sorry." Her voice trembled from weakness.  
  
"Sorry isn't good enough!" Bulma frowned, staring down at the pale woman. She honestly looked like she was about to die herself. Although that didn't forgive her crimes. "Why are you sending a looped feed of yourself to the outside of the base? Is it another part of this stupid, misguided master plan?"  
  
"I... what?"  
  
"Never mind," Bulma smirked. She jerked her screwdriver from Tao Pai Pai's chest in a gush of blood, then brandished it like a sword. "I Bulma Briefs, greatest assassin in the world," she kicked the unmoving body, "Will take care of it."  
  
And she marched back to the circuit panel.  
  
* * *  
  
Gohan stood, head up straight and unflinching. Tenshinhan had long since fallen; he and Chaotzu were tied, bagged, captured. Even Piccolo's breath was ragged; the proud warrior's head had fallen three times to his chest, and soon he would no longer be able to keep himself upright. The soldiers were already moving in on him with chains and ropes. Still the soft rain of dust from the airplanes fell. Still no signs of Yamucha, Kuririn.   
  
His golden aura was thready; the energy that sustained his transformation was keeping him from the effects of the sedative, but could not stop it working on his system. The Super Saiyajin form would keep him fighting for as long as he could sustain it, no matter the damage he took; and that included the toxins he was encountering. But once he grew too tired from the effects and dropped the aura, he would fall, and fall quickly.  
  
He glanced up at the projection on the clouds, the image of his mother. His eyes must have been getting foggy. He could swear that she had moved in just that way only ten minutes ago. The gas was giving him deja vu.  
  
Then his mother winked out.   
  
The soldiers, moving about efficiently in their gas masks, processing the new hostages, hadn't noticed; Gohan squinted up at the clouds. The new image that was being projected was of the same room, the same angle-- but now instead of a cage, there was a cluster of shattered iron bars, and two men in military uniform, giving orders.  
  
"She's gone," he whispered. Then the full implications hit him. "Piccolo! She isn't there! It was a recording-- a loop!"  
  
Beside him, Piccolo was sagging; it looked like he was about to melt into his cape. Half lidded, he said: "Of course. Does this mean we fight now?"  
  
Gohan wanted to soar up into that cloud. She had escaped. His mother had escaped. They were free!  
  
With the last of his energy, he jumped into the sky. The projector was guttering off, someone having realized its function was no longer relevant. Gohan raised his arms to the sky, gathering energy.  
  
"Masenko- haa!"  
  
The blast obliterated the two duster planes, burning even the dust that remained of them into inert ashes. The drug stopped falling. From his new perspective, Gohan could see about half a mile off that many tanks and troops were coming from a great distance, coming slowly-- the army that the ruse of the tape had been buying time for. Flashes of light in their ranks were Yamucha and Kuririn-- not down after all, but delaying their arrival. A Kamehameha wave in the distance took out a row of soldiers; a flying flash battled a small fighter plane.   
  
Gohan swept down; he could feel the drug leaving his system, slowly. Piccolo had fallen to his knees, though, and his friends were still far away.  
  
A figure was making its way through the ranks of infantry-- one he recognized.  
  
"General Gao," he said.  
  
The man smirked behind his gas mask-- an almost indistinguishable squinting of the eyes.  
  
"You can't win," he said. His voice was nasal from behind the mask, like an alien's. He seemed to be twitching. "One boy, even a flying boy, against an entire army? Your friends are gone. Surrender, and my soldiers will spare your life. You can't possibly defeat an entire army by yourself!"  
  
Gohan let his feet touch the ground, alighting a mere five meters from the general. The wind from his aurora swept through the hair of the soldiers that were standing nearby; they rushed into a defensive formation around their general, but Gao stood his ground bravely against the apparation that stood before him-- this lanky, angry, somber-faced boy.  
  
"My father did, once," he said.  
  
"You refer to Son Goku," said the general, sneering. The golden wind was whipping through his hair. "A great man. A champion of the human race, and winner of the Tenkaichi Budokai. The strongest of us all, and conqueror of the Red Ribbon Army. Defeated that menace you're so fond of back there, didn't he?" He nodded his head towards the slumping Piccolo, then turned his sneer back onto the glowing figure he faced. "You, my boy," he said, "Are no Son Goku."  
  
"No. He is Son Gohan."  
  
The voice came from behind them; Piccolo had dragged himself up to a half standing position, although his face was still bent to the shadows as he bravely fought the slumber that was rising up to claim him.  
  
The Namek raised his head. "He is stronger."  
  
The general stood, livid, then turned, taking long strides across the dusty ground. As he passed through the troops, he shouted to them, "Attack!"  
  
Gohan stood his ground as they began to surround him, impassive, watching Piccolo succomb at last and collapse, the light of his consciousness winking out. He would awaken soon, as would Tenshinhan and Chaotzu; already Gohan could feel his full power returning to him-- and with it his rage at what had been done. As the soldiers cocked their rifles, he began to yell.  
  
The mere aura of his second transformation scattered them like paper in a hurricane.  
  
* * *  
  
"Something's happening out there," said Bulma, as she bound Chichi's arm. The younger woman was barely holding onto consciousness, and talking was good in such situations; she couldn't let her go into shock. "The barrage has started again."  
  
"No," said Chichi. "Gohan."  
  
"How do you know?" Bulma smirked skeptically.  
  
"Just know..." Chichi said, then coughed. There was blood in it.  
  
Bulma cursed herself for the lack of senzu beans. She might have been furious at Chichi, but she didn't want the woman to die. Puar, in cat form again now, was light enough to carry, but Chichi? Not to mention Vegeta? Not to mention that she was still lost. She needed to wake them up. Wake everybody up. There was no alternative but to walk out of here.  
  
"Come on, talk to me," she said, cradling Chichi's swollen cheek in her hand. "What about Vegeta. Why hasn't he woken up? His pulse is steady now. You said he would be up."  
  
"Tao said... should have woken... an hour ago. Some sort of signal..."  
  
"Well, I tried shaking him, I tried talking to him..." Bulma sighed. "Only one thing I haven't tried, and it hardly seems appropriate, given the circumstances..."  
  
Chichi looked decently scandalized, then tried to laugh, against the better judgement of her body, which decided to throw itself into a fit of weak coughing, leaving her dizzy and lolling. As Bulma watched, her eyes rolled themselves up into their head.   
  
"Oh, the hell with this," muttered Bulma. Her shapeshifter was out of commission; she had fried the circuits fixing the video loop; Son Chichi seemed to be dying... or at least extremely fatigued... and her greatest strength lay there like a lump.  
  
She rose, turning to look at the other casualty she'd been saddled with: Vegeta. Oh, she'd cried, she'd looked to his body, she'd checked everything she could. Vegeta was fine. Perhaps some of his brain cells had been fried by the poison after all-- whatever the reason, the stupid, beloved man just wouldn't wake up. He lay there, a hunk of solid muscle, a breathing stone on the floor. He refused to resolve himself into her Vegeta. She felt irrationally angry at him-- this was his fault. It was Chichi's fault. Damn it, it was everyone's fault. Why couldn't they just all behave themselves the way she wanted them to?  
  
Bulma nudged the body with her foot. Then she nudged it harder.  
  
"Get up, Vegeta," she said, knowing her voice was shrill and harsh, but not caring. "Get up, you lazy jerk! I come all this way looking for you, and all you can do is lie there? Who do you think you are? This isn't Planet Vegeta, you know. You aren't the king here. Get up and start pulling your own weight!" She ended on a high wail, almost a scream, her voice echoing down the empty hallway, resounding in the silence. There was no answer.   
  
She gave him one last, ferocious kick in the ribs-- then sat down and put her face in her hands.  
  
"Woman."   
  
Bulma turned, jaw dropping. Vegeta's eyes were still closed. Had she imagined it? But no-- his lips were moving again, the voice barely a whisper through his parched throat.  
  
"Can't you let me sleep in peace."  
  
"Vegeta!" Bulma fell across his chest, hugging him. He wasn't moving, but that was him, his voice. All her anger had melted away, and she was weeping, ashamed to show her weakness in front of him, but unable to restrain tears nonetheless. "Vegeta." She couldn't seem to stop saying his name. She hadn't realized just how alone she was in the world without him, she realized. Goku, Yamucha-- they were one thing, but this man was another. In that moment she felt she would follow him anywhere, do anything for him; together, they would be their own world.  
  
Vegeta cracked an eye open, straining to look over his own chin at the woman who wailed inconsolably on his chest. Yes... that was Bulma. He was so tired!  
  
"Woman. Is someone dead?"  
  
"No, Vegeta."  
  
"Is someone dying?"  
  
"No. No."  
  
"Then stop crying. Nothing is wrong." He closed his one eye. The relief of closing it was a balm to his nerves. But the woman was still crying.  
  
"What is it, woman? Can't you see I'm tired?"  
  
"Nothing, Vegeta..."  
  
"Don't nothing me." He forced the eye open again, trying to catch hers, but all he could see was a waterfall of blue hair. "What is wrong?"  
  
"A... I need a way out of this place," Bulma said, sniffing. She tried to dry her tears.  
  
Vegeta closed his eyes again. The brat was fighting to the north; he could feel the power nagging at his mind like a reminder of his failings. That would have to do.  
  
Bulma lifted herself off of her mate, brushing her tears. Vegeta had stopped talking; clearly she had asked too much of him for the first waking. He was tired. He had been in a coma. It was understandable.  
  
Then, like the moving of a mountain, Vegeta's arm lifted from his chest, drawing a glacially slow arc in the sky. It raised and straightened itself, then came to rest, pointing at a door in the wall in an oblique angle. Then, ponderously slow, the palm turned to face outward, four fingers pointing at the sky, the thumb turned in. Lightening gathered there, building, burgeoning, making the lights in the ceiling flicker.   
  
The ki flickered from Vegeta's hand and darted eagerly towards the wall.  
  
* * *  
  
On the battlefield, chaos reigned. Kuririn and Yamucha had finally arrived, along with General Gao's reinforcements, and the two men gleefully picked amongst them, using their ki attacks sparingly as they knocked the soldiers senseless, dodging bullets to the horror and consternation of their opponents.  
  
"It reminds me of eliminations at the Budokai," shouted Kuririn as he knocked the heads of two soldiers together, then casually hurled a small ball of ki up at a passing helicopter.  
  
Yamucha nodded. He was panting a little more heavily than Kuririn, but still holding his own-- and the soldiers were admittedly ganging up on him more. They preferred to avoid the gleeful monk.  
  
"Hey-- aren't you the Bandit?" asked one of the soldiers suspiciously. "Can I have your autograph?"  
  
But the main area of the battlefield was the purveyance of great, apocolyptic beings. The graceful green being in the cape, scowling like a demon out of hell, had risen from the ashes of his drugged stupor to a raging fury; his arms grabbed the unwary from dozens of meters away, and reached up to grab planes from the sky. Even a glance from his eyes was deadly, and he moved like quicksilver; no defense stopped him. The three eyed goliath shouted the names of his attacks like arcane spells, leaving no survivors from those who approached; and the small, floating apparition at his side... well, those who approached him suddenly found themselves running in abject terror for no reason at all. And leading the forefront of the charge was a boy, long-legged and rangy, who threw off lightning like a thunder god; a child of pure rage, pure energy. To touch him was to be burned. Legions fell before his passing. He called down fire from heaven and brought it to bear against his enemies; an inhuman warrior beyond the call of thought or reason.  
  
Upon these warriors, the defenses of the mountain were crumbling. Gao called them to retreat, pulling them back to the mountain-- those who had not already fled (or been knocked senseless) ran across the starlit clearing, pursued by the monsters they were fighting, fleeing to the security of their stone fortress.  
  
Just as they reached it, the mountain exploded.  
  
Great boulders flew hundreds of meters out of the side, and the earth shook. Dust coughed into the air, obscuring the sky, and a sheet of rock slid down in a great avalanche, thundering across the plain. Those who could, fled. Those who could fly, pulled back. Gohan, his mind still buzzing with the uncontrollable transformation, stood his ground, letting the rocks burn themselves up on the fringes of the energy that surrounded him, waiting for the dust to clear.   
  
When it did, the army was gone; fled, downed, buried. And there was a great gaping hole bored straight into the dark center of the mountain.   
  
The warriors approached it, cautiously.  
  
"Taiyo-ken!" shouted Tenshinhan, and as the attack shot up into the air, the fighters shut their eyes-- and then opened them to the now-illuminated tunnel. The explosion had gone through two hundred or so meters of solid granite. And at the other end of it, a tiny, faraway white-gloved hand dropped to the floor, its work done.  
  
"There, woman," muttered Vegeta. "Now will you let me sleep in peace?" 


	19. In Memoriam

Chapter 19: In Memoriam  
  
It had been still for a long time, still beyond blackness, beyond consciousness, beyond being. With that knowledge, though, she knew that she was still living-- a being; a mind; a woman.  
  
A light breeze, breathing the cool scent of cut grass and morning-- and just a hint of motor oil-- brushed up against the woman's cheek in the darkness. Somewhere, inchoate voices swam around in eddies above the deep water she rested in. She felt warm, and comfortable, floating in some embryonic state below places and names, her entire self wrapped up in the all-encompassing state of being still and whole. But something was pulling at her-- some sense that once, she had been more than this quiet ocean creature-- a woman with a name-- a silly nickname, and two sons-- Chichi. Yes. She was Chichi.  
  
She opened her eyes then-- vision swimming a little; her eyes were caked with grit from a long, long sleep. She rubbed at them-- her arm felt light as gauze-- and tried to make sense of her world. A fancy bedroom, and in the distance a telltale clanking; and from a distant part of the house, enough voices for a raft of people. All of the old gang; and the young children, as well-- and over all of it, Bulma shrieking at somebody like usual. She smiled-- then caught sight of a familiar, friendly face.  
  
"Good morning," said Kuririn. "Told Gohan to get some food-- he was looking peaked! But Goku would never forgive me if I let his girl wake up alone, so here I am. Should I call Gohan?"  
  
"Wait," Chichi croaked. Her throat was so dry! "How long...?"  
  
"Don't panic," Kuririn nodded seriously. "About five days--"  
  
"FIVE--" Chichi coughed, and Kuririn rushed to her side, squeezing water from a sponge into her mouth, until, embarrassed by such a show of weakness, she waved him away, reaching for the glass herself. The taste of the water was a thing of pure miracles, and as it soothed her parched throat, she got her bearings.  
  
"What happened?" she asked. "Is Vegeta all right? Tell me everything!"  
  
"Okay, okay," Kuririn laughed, waving her down. "But take it slowly with the water. We've been feeding you intravenously, and your stomach isn't used to it. Vegeta's fine, woke up for good the morning after the assault complaining that he hadn't gotten to fight Kakkarot. Idiot." He shook his head. "Around the time Bulma says you passed out, he decided that the best way to get out of a maze of tunnels is to blast through hundreds of cubic tons of rock with a Big Bang Attack. After the avalanche buried most of the enemy troops, finding you was a cinch."  
  
Chichi's eyes bulged. "Go on."  
  
"Well, let's see; we found one sleeping Saiyajin, one dead assassin, Bulma with a blood-coated screwdriver, one wife of my best friend, barely clinging to life, and a very distressed cat. Yep, that's it." he grinned. "Once Piccolo convinced Gohan to calm down, the two of them grabbed Vegeta and you-- Yamucha insisted on taking Puar, even though he's slow in the air-- and they hightailed it out so fast I could barely follow. Especially since Bulma insisted I carry her. She's pretty threatening as the world's greatest assassin. Her covering my eyes and screeching always made flying her kind of a challenge." Kuririn laughed, glancing nervously to both sides, as if afraid that psychotic Bulmas were lying in wait everywhere to pounce.  
  
"By the time I got there, Dende had pronounced Vegeta already healed, and had cured all of the damage you took in your fight with Tao Pai Pai," Kuririn continued. "But he said that all of the energy from the small beings in your cells... mitoo... I don't know-- had been depleted, and that you had to rest and recover it." He smiled. "So, here we are at Capsule Corp, where we could get an IV into you-- after what happened to Vegeta, nobody was particularly happy with the idea of a hospital."  
  
"What happened to the soldiers at the compound-- did they all die in the avalanche?" Chichi felt slightly guilty. Those men had just been following the orders of a madman; in truth, the whole affair smacked of treachery, especially when she considered the thought of them trying to fight her son in a fit of rage. Like throwing ants at a bonfire.  
  
Kuririn frowned. "I'm not sure, you know," he said. "The General was killed, but we just... left the rest to sort it out. I suppose we should go back; after all, we don't even know where they were getting their information..."  
  
"Ah!" Chichi lit up. "Are my clothes from that day still here?"  
  
"Yes," Kuririn said, still frowning, "But after three days and a fight to the death... I mean, what I'm saying is, we brought you some fresher clothes from..."  
  
"Give them to me," Chichi ordered, pulling herself up. She was beginning to feel like her old self.  
  
Kuririn reluctantly handed the ragged, stinking clothes to Chichi; as she rummaged through them, he asked, "Should I send Gohan up? He'll want to see you..."  
  
"Got it," Chichi muttered, then, Kuririn's question registering: "No. Give me those fresh clothes; I'll go down myself."  
  
"Then why--"  
  
"It occurred to me-- not that I do anything but frown on consorting with known psychotic murderers--" Chichi turned a disapproving frown into a mere grimace-- "-- that you might happen to know someone who would appreciate this." And she handed him the battered chip from the army base.  
  
Kuririn turned the mangled thing over in his hand, gazing at it in wonderment. "This is the central processor from Android 16," he said, then looked up: "these contained databases on all of the z fighters-- power levels, locations--"  
  
Chichi nodded. "The General's informant."  
  
Kuririn shook his head angrily. "That damned Gero," he said. "So after all of these new happenings, it all comes down to Goku and the Red Ribbon Army yet again..."  
  
"A last hurrah," Chichi said. "And over now."  
  
"No," said Kuririn firmly, and with one last flick of the chip, he pocketed it, then looked up-- and his face transformed itself with a smile. "Not over. Transformed. Thank you, Chichi. A piece of her past-- this could mean a lot to 18."  
  
"Oh, get out before I throw you out," Chichi said, irritably. Wasn't it enough that she handed prizes over to evil robots without having her husband's best friend gloat about it? "Can't a lady get some privacy?"  
  
"But there's one more thing I forgot to tell you," Kuririn said, his face suddenly falling. "It took us long enough, but Chichi-- after we got back to Capsule Corp, and we had some time to spend looking for him, we found Oolong."  
  
Chichi raised an eyebrow-- then slowly lowered it as she watched the expression on Kuririn's face grow increasingly miserable.  
  
"He was killed in the first attack on Capsule Corp. He hadn't gotten far-- a few hundred meters from the outer walls. Puar and Roshi and everyone else from Kame house, they're all there, burying him according to shifter traditions..."  
  
Kuririn trailed off, but Chichi was no longer listening. Poor, perverted, hopelessly terrified Oolong, who had wanted nothing more than to avoid danger-- cut down by soldiers-- as if he were an enemy threat!-- and left alone, friendless, to die on a battlefield? And she'd dragged him into it. With Bulma's bra. The sheer ridiculousness of the horrible situation-- she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Oolong, the brave, heroic sacrifice of this battle?  
  
"I promised to make him dinner," she said, lamely. Kuririn looked like he wanted to speak again-- his mouth gaping with words that wouldn't come. "No, just go, I'll be down in a minute," she said. She wanted to be alone to think through this one.  
  
It was nearly an hour later when Chichi had dragged her feeble, now-thin limbs into her clothing and to a standing position. Her arms looked as if a ghost had sucked the marrow from them, skin hanging loose-- a shadow of her former self. So that was the price of truly exceeding the energy limits of a human body-- without Dende's alien healing, the fire would probably have consumed her utterly in the end. A hard price had been exacted on her, in truth-- but the price she'd exacted on her erstwhile friends was harder still. She would have to find some penance she could make to salve that wound. Now, though, her energy was returning to her moment by moment, and hunger was starting to loom ominously in her stomach. She started for the stairs.  
  
"Maaa!" It was Goten who found her first, hurling himself at her from a crawl, as little Trunks looked at this relative stranger suspiciously. She hoisted him, laughing, and he clung to her neck, strong and healthy-- probably no thanks to Piccolo, she reflected. Everyone seemed to be coming around to look at her-- Yamucha, Chaotzu, the green menace-- hadn't anyone left?  
  
Then her older son was running up, and the hug he took her in was so fierce and quick that it caught her up by surprise.  
  
"Mom. Mom." he whispered, brokenly, his eyes squeezed shut, until she reached down, detaching Goten from her neck, and turned his face up to meet hers. His eyes were despairing; she could see her face, frightiningly gaunt, reflected there. "I... "  
  
"Shhh," she said, running her hand through his wiry hair. The scrutiny of everyone around them needled at her neck. "We'll talk later. First we'll have this party; then we'll talk about it." He put his head in her shoulder, nodding.  
  
* * *  
  
The party for Chichi's awakening, which was also the postponed celebration of the warriors' latest victory, was of course a raging success. Despite the loss of Oolong, despite the fact that it had been several days, everyone remained in high spirits-- even Piccolo, who stood impassively in a corner, but with a slight smirk to his mouth. Chaotzu got roaringly drunk. The caterers, who brought the best food that international corporate money could buy, cowered in fear at the apparitions that loomed before them, but were too well paid to run away.  
  
"Did anyone ever tell my father what was going on?" Chichi asked Kuririn. Gohan seemed to be avoiding her-- he was over trying to get Piccolo to talk to him, without much success.  
  
Kuririn looked slightly embarrassed. "Well, it was only really the one day we had," he said. "By the time we got around to stuff like talking to relatives, we'd already found you, and then, well, we... figured we'd just let you tell him about it."  
  
"Oh. Great."  
  
"Ox King is a little scary, you know, even with the glasses and all..." Kuririn trailed off, looking around for an escape.  
  
"No, no, I understand," Chichi sighed. "I'm going to have quite some explaining to do in a few days, that's all."  
  
  
  
In another corner of the roudy room, Bulma bragged to a bored Yamucha, "Anyway, since I'm now the greatest assassin in the world, all of you noble warriors had better watch out. I could stab you in your sleep, you know. What's all this fuss over Chichi, anyway? I was the one who saved the world this time. Me, Bulma Briefs. I found the secret hideout. I killed the bad guy. I unlooped the video feed so you could fight."  
  
"And if Chichi hadn't first *defeated* Tao Pai Pai, Vegeta would have been possessed," Yamucha pointed out. "Nor would you have been able to kill him, and become the world's greatest assassin. Maybe it's her we should be watching out for."  
  
The two of them were lounging behind a table of hors d'oevres, watching an informal wrestling match that was about to break out between Kuririn and Tenshinhan. As they began noshing on chips and fancier appetizers, Tenshinhan kept pinning Kuririn, who kept turning a wrist to wriggle away, infuriating the giant. Everyone else was cheering; except Chaotzu, who was too busy hiccuping.  
  
"Well, and if she hadn't decided to poison Vegeta in the first place," Bulma growled, "we wouldn't have been in this mess anyway, would we?"  
  
"But the General would have found some other way to attack; maybe worse!" Yamucha popped a small crab-stuffed mushroom into his mouth.  
  
"I don't want to hear it, Yamucha!" Bulma turned away, crossing her arms. "I don't know why people put up with that woman! She's bossy, overbearing, manipulative, always used to getting her own way-- a spoiled princess who never thinks about how her actions are going to affect others!"  
  
"Fime, fime," Yamucha mumbled, mouth full. He seemed to be too busy looking amused to swallow his mushroom.  
  
At this point, Vegeta's voice came soaring over the crowd, bragging to an unresponsive Piccolo and Chichi: "After I swallowed the potion, I was brought to a great underworld tournament, where I fought my way up through rank upon rank of Ice-jin. They were no match for me. Finally I came to the final opponent: Cell. He was organizing a coup to escape from the guardians of hell. It was a fierce battle-- lightning touched the sky..." his voice trailed away.  
  
"Did you tell him yet what Dende said-- that all those opponents he vanquished in his dream were actually his own brain cells that he was killing?" Yamucha whispered.  
  
Bulma shook her head, alarmed. "Better he doesn't know. For his own good." She brought her mouth close to his ear, conspiratorily-- her breath, warm on his neck, made him shiver. "I mean, he can hardly stand that Son beat him. It's even worse that that robot woman did. Now, a silly potion?" she leaned back. "He thinks he fought his way out of it himself. And I'm not going to be the one to disabuse him of the notion. Are you?"  
  
Yamucha grinned.  
  
At the end of the evening, after all of the food had been thoroughly demolished (as well as the liquor), Kuririn had finally and conclusively pinned Tenshinhan, and Chaotzu had been woken from his passed-out state, everyone gathered at last on the Capsule Corps lawn.  
  
"See you in the next crisis," Yamucha joked, winking.  
  
"I hope not," Vegeta scowled, folding his arms.  
  
"He means, we hope there won't be a next crisis," Bulma corrected.  
  
"No, woman, I--"  
  
"Enough, I get it!" Yamucha blushed. "We'll go!"  
  
The Son and Briefs families stood, Bulma holding a grouchy Trunks, Chichi a sleeping Goten, as Kuririn, Yamucha, Piccolo, Tenshinhan, and Chaotzu jumped into the air, making a wheeling turn to avoid the high-roofed gravity room-- a flock of warriors, vanishing back into the night. Just before he disappeared from view, Kuririn turned to flash a smile at Chichi, holding up a glinting chip in thanks and farewell.  
  
Bulma looked askance at Chichi, but she shrugged, smiling, as Gohan whistled down Kinto-un from the sky to take them home at last. The golden cloud whisked them up and away so quickly, she barely got a backwards glance at Trunk's face, uncomprehending and angry at the sudden abduction of his playmate. Goten, on the other hand, was long gone and snoring on her shoulder.  
  
Chichi patted him absently-- the sweet smell and softness of baby sent calm all the way down into her stomach, and the warm glow of Kinto-un, the way it gentled the wind that blew the hair from her face in the silent reaches of the evening sky, completed the feeling of peace she felt. Whatever happened, her children were safe, and going home.   
  
In front of her, Gohan's back was silent and all too rigid; tense-- but he didn't seem to want to start a conversation anymore. Chichi resigned herself-- and then suddenly it dawned on her:  
  
It wasn't Gohan who didn't want to have this conversation. It was her. True, he'd also avoided it, but she was the adult; she was in charge of her family. And that night-- six nights ago now, although to her memory, only the night before last-- they had begun to talk about the loss they had suffered. Until rather than truly talk about it, honestly and openly, she hadn't been able to bear the sadness in his eyes. She'd had to try to cheer him up, instead-- embarked on her harebrained scheme-- sparked this whole mess. Because hadn't it been enough that she was suffering? Did she have to know-- to really know-- what her son, who had been there when Goku died, experienced as well? Wasn't a year long enough to put such matters behind them?   
  
No. As clear as the night sky above, she saw it now. He would not bring it up; Gohan was too self-controlled, too much the warrior. But he was still only a young man. No matter his strange, god-like power, he was still her son. Bringing up the subject was her job.  
  
"It was a good party," she said.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"But the whole time, I couldn't help-- feeling like someone was missing."  
  
He tensed further-- she hadn't thought it was possible-- pulling every muscle along his spine into rigid alignment. Yes-- her guess had been right.  
  
"You know what I mean?" she prodded, gently.  
  
He dropped his shoulders, changing his mind, then nodded. "You know about Oolong, then."  
  
Chichi sighed. That wasn't what she had meant, and he knew it! But still-- no need to press the subject. Let it come up on its own if it was meant to. If it was on his mind, it would. "Kuririn told me."  
  
"It was our fault."  
  
"No, not our fault, Gohan-- the army killed him, not us," said Chichi. "But I, at least, am partially responsible." She paused, then decided. "Well, I was going to wait to tell you, but-- after we get settled back in, I'm going to find the dragonballs and wish him back. Wish I had time to do it properly, on foot, a real penance, but there is Goten to look after, so I'll probably just take Kinto-un..." she looked up; the stars were brightening in the dimming light. "Maybe I'll wish back the soldiers who were killed following Gao; it wasn't their fault they had a bad commander..."  
  
"No!" Gohan's voice jolted her back down out of the stars. He had turned, wild-eyed and upset. "It's too dangerous! You can't!"  
  
"Gohan, I'll be fine!" she reached a hand to his shoulder-- the air around him was beginning to crackle with energy, and it tingled. Why was he so upset? "Bulma gave me the dragon radar before I left, and we have two already, between yours and the one she and Puar found--"  
  
  
  
"I'll do it!" he interrupted. "You stay at home. I'll find them for you. I'll protect you, Ma, I'll--"  
  
She tightened the hand on his arm, interrupting his frenzy, speaking quickly and low. "Gohan, no. You can't protect me. You-- you don't have to take his place!"  
  
"Yes I do!" he shouted, aura flaring. Kinto-un jolted, dropping a precipitous several meters, then wobbling to take a steady course. Gohan took a deep breath, controlling his energy until it was a barely perceptible burn, close around him, but intense, like embers. "If not me, then who? Everyone needs him-- we don't know how to BE without him-- and I'm his son, and I took him away! I'm old enough now. I must be old enough now. Or why would Dad have left the battle in my hands?"  
  
He sat there, dangerous fire coursing down his limbs, and anguish just as palpable. Chichi found she couldn't move. Goku-- that fool, that blessed fool, had a lot to answer for here.   
  
"No, Gohan," she said finally, and with the silence broken, he took a ragged breath, holding himself fiercely in control, then returned. He couldn't meet her eyes. "He made a mistake. We do that, adults, even fathers. God knows I make them all the time," she added ruefully. "But the world isn't who needs Son Goku. The world, Bulma, everyone-- survived just fine before and after him so far, one way or another. Can't you see?" it was coming, she couldn't bring herself to say it-- but she did anyway-- "The one who needs him is you." Her son's aura was blindingly strong now-- she could not see him, could only hear him gasping for breath, so she went on. "And I need him too," she said, and heard unashamed now the tears in her own throat: "But he's gone, Gohan, and neither you nor I can bring him back."  
  
The fiery energy guttered, went out; and then her son, gangly limbs and all, fell forward into her lap, burying his face like a much younger child. In her surprise and tears she could not understand, at first, what had happened; then the heat of his forehead, his shaking body, came to her clear as speech. She sniffed away her own tears, unable to stop them from continuing to fall; well, you've done it now, Chichi, she thought; you've broken your son. Hope this works better than poisoning Vegeta.  
  
After some time, the shaking subsided, and Gohan lay still, sniffing.  
  
At last, he said, "I thought if... if I took his place, everything would go back to normal, but... I couldn't even bring myself to train. Not even the way I used to before we'd even heard of Cell."  
  
"Of course not," Chichi said. "You couldn't force yourself be someone else. Least of all someone like Goku!"  
  
"But he's my father!" Gohan sat up, wiping his face. "Everyone says we're alike!"  
  
"Everyone looks with their eyes, not their common sense," Chichi sniffed. "If anything, you're more my son than his. Smart? Wanting to live an ordinary life, without fighting? Prone to fits of violent rage?"  
  
She was rewarded with a slight twitch of a smile.  
  
"I know it's ugly, but face it-- you're *my* son." she patted Goten's butt. "Maybe this one's his. Who knows. But in the end it doesn't matter whose son you are-- look at Piccolo! Though I hate to admit it. You can't force yourself to be someone you're not. Is there something so wrong about just being Gohan, and seeing where you go from there?"  
  
He smiled. "Does this mean you won't force me to study all the time?"  
  
She frowned, mock-serious. "We all have our responsibilities. But I guess I could let up on you a little. A little. As long as it's clear that I'm the one in charge."  
  
"Deal." Gohan nodded. Then he turned away. "Mom..."  
  
"Yes?" The anxiety in his voice told her that what was coming was something he'd been meaning to ask for a long time, but hadn't been able to bring himself to say.  
  
"Missing someone... does it ever fade away? Get easier?"  
  
Chichi closed her eyes. It seemed that somewhere, a fading memory in her nerves, she could feel Goku's presence-- as if he would suddenly pop up, apologize, miraculously appear as he'd done so many times, and as she'd for a moment thought he would in General Gao's prison cell. But no, she had had to face that battle herself; and the feeling that he was present only made the fact of his absence beat on her the stronger, a storm at sea.  
  
"No," she said. "Sometimes you think it has-- but never really. Not someone you love. God, I miss him so much."  
  
She saw from behind him his head drop down to his chest.  
  
"But Gohan, ask yourself this-- do you really *want* to stop missing him?"  
  
His head lifted; the wind played in his hair. Below them, the silent landscape swam by in oceans of trees; above them, a half-moon was rising. Goten sighed, contented, at his mother's breast.  
  
Gohan turned. He was smiling-- an honest, whole-hearted smile, not the silly grin that he'd been forcing onto his face for the past year. It was a sad smile, but it was his own smile at last.  
  
"I guess not," he said. "Because I don't want to forget him."  
  
Chichi breathed in relief. "Some days, you will forget him, though," she said. "But he'll always come back to you again. Goku is hard to get rid of, that way."   
  
Gohan broadened his smile momentarily, then dropped it, contemplative.  
  
"To Goku," said Chichi, then impulsively pulled a long, shiny pin from her hair, and threw it up into the air-- an offering to the dead. It spiralled up, up, and then down, winking its way in a long arc behind them, a tiny, falling star.  
  
She had turned to watch it fall, but then, in front of her, Gohan pulled himself upright on the cloud, balancing carefully. He raised a hand.  
  
"To my father," he said, solemnly, and fire exploded silently into the sky.  
  
For a brief, wonderful moment, half of the world was bathed in sudden noon.   
  
In Capsule Corporation, Trunks began to wail at the strange light, but then quieted, inexplicably; Bulma, who had run to him half-clothed, rubbed her head in consternation. At Kame House, a memorial to a fallen friend ended in bright glory. In forests that once dwelt in twilight, Piccolo raised his head, eyes closed, to soak in the energy. To him, this light was no mystery. Korin and Yajirobe watched it from their tower, as below them Upa and Bora smiled without knowing why. And above them, in the Lookout itself, Dende folded his arms, knowingly.  
  
"So much for *hidden* power," he said to himself. "A light like this could penetrate all the way to heaven!"  
  
He was right.  
  
But the three people riding the golden cloud didn't know that. All they knew was that as Gohan dropped back to his seat, slightly and surprisedly breathless from his outburst, as the light faded as quickly as it had arisen, Goten woke up from his sleep and began laughing, infectiously, as if there were some great and beneficent joke he wanted to share. Chichi found herself caught up in it, laughing along with Goten, her tears at last beginning to dry up. And once he caught his breath, Gohan laughed sheepishly, too.  
  
"I guess that was a little extreme," he said.  
  
"Just like Goku," Chichi said. "I think he would have liked it. 'Wow, sugoi!'. That's what he would say."  
  
"Better than poisoning Vegeta." Gohan grinned.  
  
Chichi nodded firmly. "A MUCH better plan than that."   
  
He smiled. In the distance, their house was rising up to meet them. "So does this mean I'm still forbidden from training if I want to? I should give up martial arts, like you-leave protecting the world to Vegeta and all?"  
  
"Heavens, no!" Chichi frowned. "Did I really say that? ...I did, didn't I. Well, I take it back. After all, you have to help me train this little guy!"  
  
"You? Train Goten?" Gohan's jaw dropped.  
  
"And why not? I've been neglecting training, too, you know... I wasn't meant to be a fighter, clearly, but that doesn't mean one has to entirely abandon martial arts." Chichi spoke the words half to convince herself.  
  
"Mom... are you sure you're feeling all right?"  
  
"I don't hate kung fu!" Chichi felt slightly insulted. "I just-I don't think you realize how completely, utterly insane everyone we know is! Vegeta lives in that gravity room! Piccolo never stops thinking about honing body and mind! Goku was the worst of the lot-when he was your age he used to live from Budokai to Budokai. Training with Roshi, Korin, Kami, ...training while he was DEAD..."  
  
Gohan began laughing.  
  
"And don't even get me started on Tenshin and Chaotzu," Chichi went on, "...at least there's some hope for Kuririn, if he can get 18 to pay attention to him..."  
  
"Mom, mom! I get the picture!"  
  
"...so remember, no matter what all these crazy friends of your father say-there is more to life than training. Say it, Gohan! There is more to life than training!"  
  
"There is more to life than training." He grinned.  
  
"Right," she said, feeling somewhat mollified. "So... all things in moderation, then. Figure out what you want before you devote your whole life to one thing."  
  
"I will."   
  
As he smiled at her, Chichi thought that her son grew taller. Well, it would be no surprise. He seemed to get taller every day-stretching his compact musculature up and into the shape of a handsome, thin young man. They had put off this conversation far too long, but she would keep him her son now that Goku was gone. He wouldn't grow up crazy, like his father, or worse, also like his father-dead. Perhaps, she reflected, it was selfish of her to take his gifts from the world; but he was her son. And she would do anything in her power to turn the tides, and give the world to HIM instead.  
  
"I want so much for you," she found herself saying. "You should get out more-maybe a public high school? Pursue your studies, your gifts there... meet a girl someday, I know it, beautiful, and you'll have a family, and bring home grandchildren..."  
  
Gohan turned a shade of beet. "Ma..."  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry- past my bedtime," she smiled, embarrassed. "We can talk about it in the morning. Look, it's our house-we're home now."  
  
She found that she was surprisingly exhausted; she had, after all, only just woken up from a week-long coma. She gratefully took the hand that Gohan profferred to her, letting him help her from Kinto-un, which sped away, its work done.  
  
"Mom, you're right that I'm not really much of a fighter, I guess," Gohan said, as they walked to the house. "I don't care about competition; I don't care about being stronger than anyone else; I never did. But no matter what I do otherwise, I'm always going to be kind of like Dad, too. I want to protect people. I can't sit by watch bad things happen-I get angry, and I have to protect the things I care about. No matter what it costs me."  
  
"I know," Chichi nodded, proud. "That's because what you are is not a fighter. What you are is a warrior."  
  
Gohan nodded back, quietly. They had reached the door; Goten was drowsing again on her shoulder, and it seemed like her son was taller than she was all of a sudden. When had he grown up? But he still smiled like an idiot. Insects were chirping in the grass, and a light breeze rustled in the branches around their mountain home; it was, if truth be told, a beautiful night.  
  
As they stepped over the doorstep to their home, Gohan said, "And Ma... so are you." 


	20. Afterward: deconstruction of Chichi, DBZ

Endnote  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
Well, that's it for Chichi in Charge! I hope people enjoyed it, and will recommend it to others. I guess I don't have too much to say about it-- everything I wanted to say, I tried to say with the story itself. I wrote this story in large part because I was inspired by the episode where Chichi slaps Buu on the Lookout for killing Gohan, and is then killed without a second thought. It's the ultimate, defining moment for Chichi's character-- that idiotic, brave devotion to her family that is her own domain as a warrior. I wanted to write about that woman. Especially since, like her, I'm an adult, not a teenager anymore (unlike many ffnet authors). And since Gohan's my favorite, I had to write about him too. (Piccolo's my second favorite, which is why "the second son" is my favorite chapter in here.)  
  
And I also wanted to capture something of the unique winning formula of Dragonball Z, that golden mixture of humor, action, and angst. Diverted a little by ending on angst instead of ending back in humor-- but hopefully it was a fun ride for all concerned. Because of events in my own life, the story eventually became focused around loss, and the way it turns the landscape of relationships and emotion into a new map. Losing someone or something makes us lost in turn; we have to rebuild everything around that hole. And the same in a show which has lost its central character-- that's something very true about life. How can that world go on without him? It's a testament to how real the relationships on Dragonball Z are that we can concieve of the story going on, not understanding how or why it is happening, when the central character has gone. Not something Toriyama himself planned on, and something that he skipped over entirely when pressured into continuing DBZ; by the time we meet Gohan again, all the relationships have solidified again. I wanted my story to help build that bridge, for all the characters-- how they wound up the way they did in the Buu saga from where we left them, alone without the hero. That's the chapter "The Pieces Try to Fall Into Place"-- the way I think we really feel once the initial grief of loss has passed, when we start to realize just how far-ranging such an event is for us. A rare true consequence in a world where magic brings folks back to life all the time.  
  
(I guess I had more to say about it than I thought I did.)  
  
Whew-- I'm not pretentious or anything!  
  
Anyway, a big thank you to everyone who reviewed, especially DBZFQ, Briememory, happygohangirl, BigNamekianBallz (what a moniker), discordchick, liliboom, who have been there all along; Unromantic Poetess and Lady Eldaelen for their longer reviews; shadowphoenix and LadyAngelFiren for being plot twist lovers (like me); and if Psycho ever actually finishes *posting* his/her review evil grin, for unrepentant sesquipedalianism. But thanks to everyone. It's been great hanging out with all of you here on ffnet's DBZ section, even the ones who didn't review (because I'm psychic like that); good luck to you in your own endeavors, and au revoir!  
  
~Kettr. 


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